


Once Upon Another Time

by rivlee



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, First Age, Friends to Lovers, Gondolin, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: Erestor of the Heavenly Arch is in need of an escort for his official welcoming ceremony as an adult member of King Turgon's court. It should be an easy decision--it is an easy decision--if only he could work up the nerve toask.Featuring meddling siblings, meddling friends, and meddling royals.





	1. Chapter 1

The House of the Heavenly Arch was the wealthiest of Gondolin’s homes, rumored to have more coin and jewels than even King Turgon himself. They were never one to truly flaunt the depths of their stores, even if they were the House to keep the city running and its sole bank flush with funds. The Heavenly Arch believed in investments, from the lessons for a common born musician, to paying the House of the Hammer of Wrath both to fortify Gondolin and its armory and to forge beautiful creations to hold the Heavenly Arch’s jewels, to ensuring each elfling, no matter their status, would be educated in Quenya and Sindarian, uniting a population that could so easily be divided by its founding families.

The Heavenly Arch’s most beloved treasures could not be found in crown, sword, ring, or necklace. Their most valuable assets were the three ruling siblings. Egalmoth was the eldest, the Lord of the House, and the commander of their forces. His sister, Ithilwen, handled all legal matters, from contracts to apprenticeships to loaning and leasing transactions. The youngest sibling, Erestor, was newly come to his majority and yet already showed the type of sharp strategic mind envied by most of his elders in Turgon’s Court.

Many of the noble families considered Erestor’s hand a prize. Egalmoth was tied to Penlod and the House of the Pillar. Ithilwen was long betrothed, though most knew she was privately married, to Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. Erestor was not privately married, betrothed, or promised in any other way and therefore his future spouse was the source of much speculation. He was the last of the first generation of Gondolin’s noble elves to come to majority, and currently the focus of attention for all in the city. 

The Gondolindrim had developed a complex celebration for an elf’s majority. It was a combination of Vanyar, Noldor, and Sindar traditions, born over the sea, modified in Vinyamar, and changed to fit Gondolin's unique society. They had pushed the age of majority from fifty years to one hundred. An elf was still considered mostly grown at the age of fifty, but could not settle on a career until sixty, were still under their family’s rule until seventy-five, and even once they officially reached the age of one hundred, if they were a noble they would have to wait another year and a day to be considered a full member of the Court. Such an occasion was marked by a grand ball hosted by King Turgon. It was a celebration of life, and the future, and all they have survived. It ensured that noble elves weren’t lured into unacceptable betrothals. The event honored the Court, since the elf of the hour had to be accompanied by a member of a different noble house, and had to spend the first official night of their adulthood as a member of the King’s Court with a fellow noble. It was called the Rites of the First Night and while few elves suffered under the disillusion that an elf, having been considered an adult for the better part of a half-century, would honestly lay with their first lover that night, it was still about the honor of it all.

Honor, of course, was its own valuable currency in Gondolin. 

Erestor hated it. The pomp and circumstance and the idea of being at the center of the Court’s attention, feeling like a prize for ambitious parents and guardians to fight over. It was his role to play though, and he understood it, and knew well who he wanted to ask to accompany him on such a night. He had just passed his hundredth year. He had two months to decide on an escort so the decorations, music, and menu could be tailored to the honored houses, he had a year and a day until the celebration came to pass.

He knew who he wanted to ask.

The only problem was, despite his sharp mind, wit, and tongue, he had no idea _how_.

**********

Erestor trailed behind Ithilwen, his steps slowing as she sped up, not overly eager to be dragged out among the crowds and subjected to so many whispers. He had little choice in the matter; his brother was newly returned from a mission outside the walls of the city and it would be the highest insult not to greet him. There was no way yet to travel between their home and that of King Turgon’s sight unseen, so Erestor would just have to endure it. He _was_ eager to see his brother again, whole, hale, and safe.

Ithilwen had no such hesitations as she reached for Erestor’s hand and tugged him forward. He did not deride his sister’s joy; it’d been months since she’d seen Glorfindel and they’d both earned a long reunion. Even Erestor could admit he was eager to see his law-brother again, an elf always full of an amusing tale to take Erestor’s mind off any troubles.

It was the third member of the returning party that caused him to drag his feet. Ecthelion. Loyal, handsome, talented, kind Ecthelion. Erestor had fancied himself a little in love with Ecthelion since he was a child. As he grew older those feelings hadn’t faded, merely changed into something that felt deeper; truer in its own way, as he learned more of the private elf as Ecthelion rather than the Lord of the Fountains. And now here he was, a week past his majority, a year to prepare for the celebration which made him an official adult member of Turgon’s court, in need of an escort for that night, and required to choose from one of the noble Houses. And then, during that horribly embarrassing celebration, to choose one member of the court to accompany him for the Rites of the First Night. Often, but not always, the choice was one and the same. It had been for Egalmoth when he’d chosen Rog; for Ithilwen when she’d chosen Glorfindel; Erestor hoped it would be the same for him.

If he could manage to ask Ecthelion, of course.

Erestor had never been at a loss for words. He didn’t speak at length, nor was he the type of rambling fool like his law-brother, but words and speeches came easy to him. He was hailed by his instructors for his skill at debate and his quick wit. King Turgon himself had complimented Erestor on the clear steadiness and cadence of his voice after hearing him give a report. Lady Aredhel often summoned him to advise on smaller matters of the Court. He had the approval of the city’s most respected scholars and of most leaders of its noble houses.

And yet he had spent the entire half-year Egalamoth, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion had been gone trying and failing to compose the proper words to ask Ecthelion to be his escort. Or his lover. Hopefully both, but he’d settled for escort now. He could be patient for the other. Just the thought of it made his heart race.

“Erestor, let us not tarry,” Ithilwen said as she pulled him down their private path which led to the city center.

Theirs was one of the grandest homes in all of Gondolin, second only to the King’s palace, and took up much of the eastern side of the city. Once they approached the Grand Market, drew nearer to the King’s home, and were in the eyes of the public, they would be pillars of decorum. For now though, Erestor could feel Ithilwen’s excitement and ran along the path with her as if they were both much younger, eager to see the new wares in the market brought from Outside.

Erestor had never been outside the walls. When their parents departed the city, before Turgon declared finally that none should leave and return without the King’s express consent, they had asked him to come with them, to move to a city he’d never known, under a king he'd never met, forever parted from his siblings. He had chosen Gondolin and knew that if the offer was made now he would still make the same choice. Of course he was curious about life beyond the Gates, but Gondolin was enough for him.

The Grand Market was full of people as they passed through, though many parted as they saw Ithilwen, her head held high and even her modest dress still glistening with gold and silver thread. She was a leader of the wealthiest noble house. She was the wife of the beloved Glorfindel. And she was widely respected for choosing duty over desire, returning to her brother’s home to raise her younger sibling, forgoing her own marriage bed for the betterment of Gondolin’s future. At least that’s how Erestor heard it among the gossips in the archive’s halls. In truth, Erestor knew Ithilwen only ‘lived’ in the House of the Heavenly Arch when she considered herself on duty. Glorfindel’s home was kept as her sanctuary, with a staff eager to see their beloved lady at peace when she walked through their halls. In the approach of his majority, Ithilwen had spent much of the past decade at home, but all those closest to her knew that her nights were usually spent behind the protective garden walls of the Golden Flower.

Ithilwen slowed her pace as they approached the palace. Her head was now bowed in respectful reverence and Erestor mirrored his sister’s actions. It would not be right to appear too familiar with the royal family, too comfortable inside the palace walls. There would be no fodder for the gossips today, at least not those who lined the streets outside the palace and watched every move they made as they approached the guard at the steps.

Elemmakil stood on duty today and bowed low to them as he led them to the doors. He had a private smile of greeting once they were hidden under the main archway.

“Lady Ithilwen, lovely to see you as always.” He nodded at Erestor. “Young Lord Erestor. Have you decided on your escort yet?”

“Still debating,” Erestor said.

Elemmakil grinned. “I would offer my own arm, but Voronwe can be quite jealous.”

Erestor smiled in return. “I am honored by the offer, but do not wish to incur the wrath of your betrothed.”

“Nor I that of our glorious Lord of the Fountain,” Elemmakil said. He banged twice on the door and ignored Erestor’s incredulous look. “Please give your brothers my love. Life has been so quiet without them.”

“Some would say that is a good thing,” Erestor muttered.

“But we grow so bored in the barracks,” Elemmakil said as the wide doors opened to the palace square. He escorted them up the lane to the main doors of the king’s home. “Presenting Lady Ithilwen and Lord Erestor of the House of the Heavenly Arch!” 

His announcement was merely for the sake of decorum. They were strangers to none here.

They bowed their heads respectfully as they passed through the arch of King Turgon’s home. As members of the court they were, in some respects, always welcome inside. It was one thing to wander in the public areas of the palace however, and quite another to pass through to the royal family’s living quarters, so they would have to bide their time out in the main hall.

Erestor eyed a group of courtiers on one side of the sitting area and turned to Ithilwen with a desperate look. He did not wish to make idle conversation this day. Ithilwen winked at him. She gave the gathered group a respectful nod of acknowledgement and then took Erestor’s arm. She led him over to one of the indoor fountains, Ecthelion’s design of course, and took her seat on the stone rim as if it was her own throne. Erestor took his place beside her and tried his hardest not to laugh as lesser courtiers bowed low to Ithilwen’s very presence.

“It is ridiculous,” Erestor said for his sister’s ears alone.

Ithilwen kept a smile on her face as she nodded to a passing group of ladies from the House of the Harp. “It is politics,” she whispered. “Most of these elves may not be able to stand me, but they respect our wealth and they respect Glorfindel’s family ties.”

Glorfindel who was kin to both Noldor and Vanyar royalty and rumored to be favored by the Valar themselves. Ecthelion was also said to hold such favor, though the House of the Fountain was only kin to a royal house of the Teleri, Ecthelion’s mother one of their princesses and his father a revered lord of the Noldor. Both were trusted confidants and favorites of King Turgon, and along with Egalmoth and Penlod, comprised the handful of Turgon’s close circle, with ties of brotherhood forged long before Gondolin’s very foundations.

It was easy to forget sometimes, in the face of Glorfindel’s silliness or Ecthelion’s kindness or Egalmoth’s squawking about like a troubled mother hen, that they were some of the highest respected Noldor in all of Beleriand. Erestor wondered if he was sometimes aiming too high for Ecthelion, and whenever he dared to utter such Ithilwen took cares to remind me him who he was, what family he came from, and to hold his head high. He did so now, straightening up under the curious gazes of the elves who studied every breath they took.

“What do they think we plan on doing?” Erestor asked.

“I’m certain some think we’re here to sell you off to Idril,” Ithilwen said.

Erestor could’ve laughed. As if King Turgon would see his beloved daughter married to any elf of unequal standing. As if Idril would ever accept someone she didn't truly love. As if Aredhel would allow a forced marriage upon her beloved niece. 

“Our princess is not to your liking?” Ithilwen asked. “Perhaps Aredhel then.”

Erestor felt his face drop. “She’d destroy me.”

“In seconds,” Ithilwen agreed.

A familiar face entered the hall then, coming from the private quarters, adorned in a worn leather apron and soot still covering her face.

“Noriel!” Ithilwen greeted Rog’s wife with true joy. “It’s not often we see you out of the forges during the daylight.”

Noriel nodded as she took a seat beside them. “Idril’s begetting day is soon. Aredhel has us fashioning a new circlet for her. I had to take some final measurements.” She pulled off her work gloves and stretched out her legs, face turned towards the cool breeze coming down the mountains. “I so like to breathe the fresh air.”

“Surely you can escape the forges more often,” Erestor said.

Noriel shrugged. “I love my work. And my husband. The forges are my life. I was raised in them over the sea, our children will be raised in them here.”

“And conceived in them,” Ithilwen muttered.

Noriel grinned. “We enjoy watching each other at work.”

Erestor shook his head. “That’s not dangerous at all.” Fire pits and burning metal held little attraction for him.

“That is part of the fun,” Noriel teased. She patted Erestor’s knee. “You’ll learn, soon enough.” She lowered her voice. “Ecthelion so loves the quarries.”

Erestor hid his face in his hands. “Does everyone know of my affection for him?”

“Everyone except Ecthelion, I suspect,” Noriel said. She pulled Erestor into a motherly embrace. “Take heart, clever Erestor. I truly think only your brothers speak of such, and not to Ecthelion’s ears. My husband keeps nothing from me, and it is better he shares his gossip in our marriage bed rather than out in the market.”

Erestor let himself relax in her hold for just a moment, missing the comfort of his own mother’s arms, before resuming a more respectful position.

“If you do win your heart’s desire, I so hope you will come to us to forge the rings,” Noriel said. “Rog has already drawn up some designs for your shared insignia.”

“And we cannot disappoint Rog,” Erestor joked.

Noriel nodded in agreement. “I should get back to him before he lets the boys destroy the glass blowing station. I can’t leave them unsupervised for too long.” She hugged them both before standing. “We must have dinner soon. Before all the preparations destroy your better humor.”

“As soon as those three come out of their meeting I’ll see to preparing a proper feast,” Ithilwen promised.

Noriel winked at her. “After you properly greet Glorfindel’s return, of course.”

Ithilwen waved her off. “Be gone, you. None of that here.”

Noriel departed in a cloud of laughter and soot, leaving both Erestor and Ithilwen with grins on their faces.

****

*********

The bells for the midday meal had rung while they were still waiting for the others to return. Erestor and Ithilwen followed a line of courtiers into the banquet hall to find tables and plates laid out for the Court. The King’s seat remained empty on its dais, but Idril mingled among them, greeting all gathered parties at their chosen tables, easily crossing the unspoken territory lines.

Ithilwen chose one of the tables in the outdoor garden, close enough to another large fountain to bask in the cool mist of the mountain water, but also far enough to avoid most of the others. They were still there, still present and proper, but removed in such a way that clearly showed they desired some privacy.

Penlod, Egalmoth’s husband and their other law-brother, appeared from the archives. His stately robes of office seemed far too heavy on such a warm day, but Penlod showed no hint of it until he took his seat between them, his plate piled high with fresh fruit. His knees almost disrupted the table as he bent his large form to fit in the chair, but fit he did.

“Thank Ulmo for cool water,” Penlod said. He tugged open his high collar. “I should’ve been a warrior. Parading around in hose and tunic must be more comfortable.”

“You should start a new fashion trend among the scholars,” Ithilwen said, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Imagine the scandal.”

Penlod softy laughed. “Your brother has pinched my ass enough when I’ve been bent over a desk studying some map. Let us not encourage him to do so in public.”

“Oh, but it makes him so happy,” Ithilwen said.

“A nuisance more like,” Penold said, though his eyes betrayed his affection. He turned to Erestor. “I saw your latest research proposal. Quite an undertaking, dear brother, to gather all the history and tales of the folk of the Tree. Who has offered to speak with Galdor on your behalf?”

Erestor would always be a little in awe of Penlod. Here was the master scholar of their city, though he never held himself above others. The thrill of study motivated Penlod, and he was always eager to nurture that joy in like-minded souls. Erestor would never be the greatest of swordsman or bowmaster, though he could admire those skills in others. But Penlod? That was an elf Erestor could try his best to emulate in deed and word. 

“None have offered yet,” Erestor admitted. He knew some of the senior scribes thought he was aiming too high with this project. It would require years of dedication, but Erestor was committed. It was important to him that the Sindar be just as remembered and honored in their archives as the Noldor. 

“Hmm,” Penlod said as he picked up a slice of apple. “I, of course, cannot make the request as those with idle minds will cry over nepotism. I’ll just have to mention something to Legolas then. Surely he’d gladly pass on the word to his uncle when not busy ogling my ward.”

“That is too much to ask,” Erestor protested.

Penlod waved him off. “If Branwen did not wish to see such a thing done, she would not have left the proposal on my desk.”

“You have many connections, Erestor,” Ithilwen said. “Treat them well, and they shall reward you.”

“It seems a bit unfair,” Erestor admitted. 

Penlod nodded. “In many ways it is, but that is how our city runs. How they all do, truly. As long as you succeed on your hard work and merits, I do not think you should worry so over it. You have done well not to flaunt it in the past, and even your most bitterest of critics and rivals can’t argue against your talents.”

“And even if you were the kindest elf in the city, there would be those who hate you for no other reason than your family house,” Ithilwen said. “The gift and the burden of our life.”

Penlod silently nodded in agreement.

Erestor knew there was a cost to it all, that he’d have a higher price to pay than many others in his scribe class, and that’s why he’d been determined to prove any of his naysayers wrong. 

It was determination Eglamoth always praised him for, one Ithilwen always encouraged, and one Glorfindel promised would see him through the twists and turns of court-life.

“It will get worse,” Erestor said.

“Oh, but there will be some glorious rewards,” Penlod promised.

**************

After they’d all eaten their fill they resumed their places in the entrance hall. Penlod joined them now, flipping through his ledger and muttering to himself about roster changes in the archives.

“What could they possibly still be talking about?” Erestor asked.

Ithilwen gave an inelegant snort. “They’ve probably helped themselves to one of the King’s best vintages and have started on another round.”

“Your husband is a horrible influence,” Penlod said as he nodded in agreement.

Ithilwen shrugged. “He does like a good toast.”

“He would toast each change of the wind and call of a bird if allowed,” Penlod said. He looked up from his ledger and paused. “Though he rarely drinks around you.”

“I do not like the smell or taste,” Ithilwen said. “So he may toast the birds and the sun and the moon as long as he washes away the remnants of it before taking to our bed.”

Movement on the stairs caught Erestor’s eye. “I think they’ve finally finished.”

An escort of guards appeared, mantles glittering in the sunlight seeping in through the high windows, as King Turgon paused at the top of the stairs. He graced their group with a bow of his head and a more familiar grin before heading towards the banquet hall. Egalmoth, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion trailed behind him, their cheeks all a little ruddier than normal, testament to having consumed more than a few cups of wine in the King’s presence. 

They were all still in their travel clothes and in need of a proper scrub to wash off the travel dust. Ecthelion stood the tallest among them, his dark hair pulled back in a single braid down his back. Glorfindel took his place in the middle, golden hair loose and flashing in the light, though duller than its usual glorious shine. Egalmoth stood the shortest of them, though broader in shoulders, with his hair shorn closer to shoulders. It’d grown since his last cut, a drastic chop to his chin, after complaining of it too often getting stuck in his bow. It was stark proof of just how long the three had been gone. 

“Steady now,” Ithilwen whispered as they waited. All attention had to remain on King Turgon until he departed. Erestor knew she said it more to herself than anyone else, but even Erestor was eager to finally be reunited with the others. 

After one final private word to the three warriors, King Turgon entered the banquet hall with his escort and most of the Court. The entrance hall felt too quiet suddenly with so many voices gone and nothing left but the scuff of boots upon the stone floor as Egalmoth, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion walked over to them. 

Penlod stood first, Erestor and Ithilwen following him, deferring to his place as the lord of his home. There were still some eyes of them, still people lingering to catch a bit of gossip, and they would try their best to deny them such a prize. Though Erestor knew there was little hope in controlling Glorfindel who had long ago dismissed the opinions of everyone except those he loved and respected. 

Egalmoth approached his siblings first as Ecthelion greeted Penlod. Egalmoth was stately in his embrace, patting Erestor’s shoulder and kissing Ithilwen on the cheek. He remained the height of decorum even as he embraced Penlod. Glorfindel had no such qualms, or shame, as he hugged both Penlod and Erestor tightly, and completely picked Ithilwen up off her feet.

“Could it be that my darling wife missed me?” Glorfindel asked, spinning Ithilwen around as if she weighed nothing.

“Perhaps if you put her down she will answer,” Ithilwen said, her voice stern but her eyes full of love.

Erestor shook his head at their antics.

“Ever the same, those two,” Ecthelion said as he glided over to Erestor’s side. His smooth voice sent a shiver down Erestor’s spine. “Even if separated for a day they act as if it’s been a year.”

“Then perhaps we should praise their restraint,” Erestor said.

Ecthelion’s eyes lit up and he laughed. “Oh yes, masters of decorum those two.” He ducked his head, long dark braid slipping down his shoulder. “I am sorry we missed your begetting day.”

“I had a lovely meal with Ithilwen and a day off from my duties,” Erestor said. “Though Egalamoth will probably plan some dinner now that you’ve returned.”

“I would hope so,” Ecthelion said. “Or I will have to invite myself over to bring your gifts.”

“Ecthelion, you have no need to give me any gifts,” Erestor said. 

Ecthelion frowned. “And ruin a now century long tradition? No,” he said with a shake of his head. “You deserve presents. You would not rebuff me by refusing?”

Erestor would do just about anything he asked of him, and he couldn’t stand that sad look on his face, even if he knew it was in nothing but jest. 

“Your presence and your gifts are always welcome in my home,” Erestor said. 

Ecthelion’s brilliant smile made Erestor’s breath catch in his throat. He struggled to form words and could’ve kicked himself for his sudden thick tongue.

“Thank the Valar you’ve returned to us, whole and hale,” he finally said, grateful that he managed not to stumble over his words.

Ecthelion’s face softened. “Were you worried?”

Of the unknown world outside the walls? “Only a fool would not be,” Erestor said.

Ecthelion laughed. “True words always fall so gracefully from your tongue, Erestor. You are right, of course.” He gripped Erestor’s shoulder. “Your brothers and I have lived outside these walls, and know more of the ways in the Wild than the others. We would not so easily let harm come our way.” His hand cupped Erestor’s cheek. “Though it warms my heart to know we were in your prayers.”

“Ecthelion, let the boy be before he turns to flames!” Glorfindel called, already at the doors and ready to depart. “I, for one, am in need of a bath.”

“And a swift kick to the backside,” Ecthelion said to him.

“Or the head,” Erestor agreed. 

Ecthelion’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he eagerly nodded his agreement. He held his arm out to Erestor, an offer of an escort through the city streets. “Shall we?” he asked.

Erestor smirked and held his own arm out, offering to lead Ecthelion to his home. “Only if you insist.”

Ecthelion’s startled laugh filled the entrance hall, loud enough to draw Idril’s amused gaze from the dining hall. 

Erestor’s smile stayed on his face, even after he’d seen Ecthelion to the House of the Fountain and had returned to his own home.


	2. Chapter 2

Glorfindel of the Golden Flower essentially lived in three different homes. That of his own, that of his wife, and that of his best friend. Now he sat in Ecthelion’s bedroom as said best friend paced in front of his wardrobe, picking up and discarding tunics as if they’d all personally insulted his mother. 

“Ecthelion, Erestor does not hold much care for the latest fashions. I do not think the style of your tunic will matter to him more than your presence at the table.”

“It is a family dinner in his honor,” Ecthelion said. “I must look nice.”

Glorfindel walked over to the pile of clothing and pulled out a tunic, as deep a blue as Ecthelion’s eyes, with silver threading that glinted in the light. “The blue, then. Blue always suits you.”

Ecthelion rejected it with a wave of his hand. “You are wearing blue.”

And so he was, a favorite tunic of Ithilwen’s, but his wife truly preferred him in anything or nothing at all. “Then I shall change,” Glorfindel said. “It’s a family dinner. You should not be too overdressed or rumors will fly that you plan on proposing to Erestor this night, with everyone so gathered.”

Ecthelion looked up at him guiltily and then his gaze flickered to the chest at the end of his bed.

“Not yet,” Glorfindel gently admonished. “You must at least nominally court him before you propose.”

“Oh, like you did?” Ecthelion asked.

Glorfindel laughed. “I proposed to Ithilwen first when we were elflings. I courted her throughout our entire youth. Before she even reached her majority we were betrothed.”

“And you were married in a private ceremony a year and a day after her majority and conveniently hours before her official celebration,” Ecthelion said, as he would know, since he was there.

“We were still in Nevrast at the time,” Glorfindel said, caught for a moment in memories of a time when life was both much simpler and far more difficult.

He had dreams, then, when they were still elflings back in Valinor. Of a wedding attended by their families, kings, queens, and a few lesser Valar. Instead they had rebellion and exile, Glorfindel refusing to be separated from his love and his friends, and traveling across the sea and the ice, just a year into his majority, following Ecthelion and Eglamoth and Ithilwen. 

They’d been in Nevrast for little more than a year, the mourning period just lifted, when Ithilwen had reached her majority and Glorfindel had sought the confirmation of their betrothal, planned between their families since Ithilwen’s birth. 

He hadn’t wanted a grand wedding then, still far too weighed down with shock and grief. He’d just wanted Ithilwen, their closest family and friends, and hope for the future. And so that’s what they had, out on the beach, under the stars. 

So far removed then from their home now, their beautiful mountain city of gates and stone.

“A different world,” Ecthelion said as he looked around at the sturdy walls and luxury around them.

“A different world,” Glorfindel agreed. He stood and approached his friend, his brother, and rested his head on Ecthelion’s shoulder, smiling at their reflections in the looking glass. They’d always been an inseparable pair. And soon, he hoped, they’d be brothers by law as well as bond.

“You look serious,” Ecthelion said. “Should I worry?”

“Only if you claim to be smart,” Glorfindel teased. “Truly, Erestor is no child uncertain of his mind, nor would he ever allow himself to be swayed towards something he does not desire. He is stubborn like that, a family trait to be sure. If we were still in Valinor he’d be an entire half-century past his majority, and he well knows that.”

“And yet?” Ecthelion asked.

“He keeps his own council on many things, including his heart. He is the last of that first generation of Gondolin born elflings to come of age, the last of the noble houses until Rog’s children are grown. There is an immense amount of pressure on his shoulders over this celebration and his possible marriage. It has to be done right, Ecthelion. At least ‘right’ as the Court understands it.”

Ecthelion’s shoulders dropped in resignation. He nodded and patted Glorfindel on the arm. 

“He will have to come to me,” Ecthelion said. 

Glodinel nodded. It could not look like Erestor was coerced into a favorable match. It could not appear as if Ecthelion was trying to raise his own House by aligning it with the Heavenly Arch.

Not that Ecthelion needed any help in securing the King’s confidence and approval. Of them all, Ecthelion was the closest to the royal family, even more than Glorfindel who was related to them by blood. Save Aredhel, there was no else in the city who better knew the King’s mind than Ecthelion.

There was an impatient twist to Ecthelion’s mouth now. He’d spent most of their quiet moments while on errand planning just what he would say and do to plead his case to Erestor for an official courtship. And now Ecthelion, ever the planner, had to wait for another to make the first move.

“The waiting, it’ll be horrible, I know, but there can be no doubt in any mind that it was all Erestor’s choice.” His kissed Ecthelion’s temple. “If I know anything of him, I believe I know where his heart lies. He has always adored you.”

“I don’t need adoration,” Ecthelion said.

“Have a care and some patience, Ecthelion, and see if adoration can turn to, or perhaps already has, turned to love,” Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion laughed. “You of all elves preaching patience.” He shook his head. “What has the world come to?” He leaned forward and picked up the blue tunic. “Blue?” he asked.

Glorfindel nodded. “It is your color.” He sighed. “I suppose it shall be gold for me again.”

“Eru forbid you try something muted, like a grey,” Ecthelion joked. He nudged Glorfindel towards the door. “Go change. I shall meet you in the Greater Market.”

“I give him advice, and he banishes me from his presence,” he said to the sky. “Such insults I must bear.”

“Get out,” Ecthelion said with a laughing shove.

Glorfindel still had a smile on his face as he left the silver arches of the House of the Fountain and made his way down the familiar path to the Golden Flower. He could’ve taken the private garden path that connected their homes, but having just recently returned to the city, Glorfindel knew it was best to be seen. In a city full of so many wishing to rise in rank and power, Glorfindel could not let his own presence be forgotten.

He stopped by one of the smaller markets, made small talk with the few merchants still open, bought up the last of the day’s inventory from a young flower seller, and bought a bushel of tart green apples as a gift for his favorite brother-in-law. The sun was just beginning to set as he made it to the Golden Flower, Rerindion waiting for him at the door, and let himself relax.

“Will Lady Ithilwen be returning this night?” the Master of his Household asked. 

“If the Valar smile upon us,” Glorfindel said. He handed over the flowers. “I’m sure you can find a home for these.”

“Of course, my lord,” Rerindion said. “And the apples?”

“Have them sent to Penlod,” he said. “I must change before dinner. Any news I should know?”

“None that can’t wait until your return,” he said. “Are you not already dressed, my lord?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I felt in need of a change.”

Rerindion nodded. “May I suggest the silver? The gold has become too common.”

One of the many reasons he was glad Rerindion still worked for him. “Rerindion, you should raise your wages.”

“They are already far too high,” he called after Glorfindel.

“Raise them!” Glorfindel called back.

****

**********

“The entire idea of this majority ceremony is preposterous,” Erestor said from his seat in front of his looking glass. It wasn’t a formal dinner tonight, but Erestor couldn’t go down to the table covered in ink stains and lose hair. And this wasn’t a new rant, but it was rare to have his sister’s company behind closed doors with no other eyes or ears about. “If we were in Hithlum I’d be considered two decades past my majority. If we were in Doriath, it’d be closer to three.”

“Alas we are in Gondolin,” Ithilwen said as she sorted through his collection of hair ties and jewels.

“Where I’ve been considered ‘mostly’ adult for half a century and an actual adult for many years,” Erestor said. “Eglamoth said his majority ceremony back in Valinor wasn’t nearly as elaborate as ours now. Why the change?”

Ithilwen kissed the crown of Erestor’s head. “Because we have the luxury of time and life here. Because so many died while crossing the ice. Because this city makes our people feel a sense of permanency again, a solid ground under their feet, and as a member of a noble House, as a pillar of standards for the Gondolindrim, there are certain prices to be paid. One of them is submitting yourself to the extravagance and ceremony of your majority. Most everyone loves a party, Erestor, and your majority will be the last of its kind until Rog’s children come of age.”

“And the Rites? I cannot believe that was practiced over the sea.”

Ithilwen shrugged and started to plait Erestor’s hair. “They were, in some manner, from what I was told. Things were different in Nevrast.” She secured the main plait with a silver and gold clasp of the Two Trees, a gift Ecthelion had sent over the day of his return. “It’s all a matter of honor. You’re a member of one noble line honoring another by declaring them as righteous enough to guide you into adulthood. No one actually expects the Rites to contain a bedding unless the match is one of mutual desire or love. It’s enough to give the people the illusion of it all, from a time when elves were far too idle for anything other than gossip, I suppose.”

“Politics,” Erestor said with a sneer.

“Of which you are striving to become a master,” Ithilwen kindly reminded him.

“Only when they don’t directly concern me,” Erestor said. “I have little need or desire for such attention, and as the youngest sibling I should be of little notice to anyone. Let me stay to the shadows and gather my observations from there.”

“Even in the shadows, Ecthelion shines. If he is where you heart truly lies you will have to play nice with Turgon’s court.”

“Like you?” Erestor asked. 

It was a petulant jab from a brother that knew better. He knew how hard Ithilwen had worked to gain a voice and establish her own authority, and how she always fought the yoke of her position and place in the city. She knew her part to play, she played it well, but she did it so few would ever know or suspect the true influence she held. Better to think her nothing more than a pampered, though respected, she-elf. She used their ignorance over her true intentions to her advantage.

Ithilwen bowed her head and placed a hand over her heart in a solemn motion. “I know not of what you speak. I’m a simple sister who still dwells in her brother’s home, so sad to be so long betrothed.”

Erestor laughed at the innocent mask Ithilwen wore. “And what will you do the day you forget to take those herbs of yours and wind up with two-legged evidence of your not-so-secret marriage?”

Ithilwen raised a single pointed brow, the innocent mask vanishing. “Do you think any foolish enough in these walls to openly call Glorfindel’s child a bastard?”

“If they had even an inkling of brains in their heads they would know to fear your wrath more than his. Glorfindel lashes out with strategic plans and bright smiles so you don’t see the knife at your back. You, dear sister, threaten the ruin of their reputations and their funds.”

“As you know, there are many forms of currency in this city, and sometimes all it takes is a single word whispered in the right ear.” Her gaze was drawn out to the garden. “We were all reunited for some time, after the Ice, after all that loss, and working together to build Vinyamar. And then Turgon started to play favorites, those prized few who knew of Gondolin’s foundations from the day the ground was broken.” She sighed and cupped Erestor’s cheek. “Jealousy is a truly wicked thing, dear brother. You will feel its blows even more keenly now, if you are to accomplish that which you so desire.”

“Perhaps not. Not everyone falls in love with their first bed partner,” Erestor said.

Ithilwen did not glare at her brother. She did something far worse. Her smile was sweet and understanding as she crouched down to meet his eyes. “Yes, but not everyone is already _in love_ with their first bed partner when they ask them to perform the Rites.” Her lips were warm where they pressed against Erestor’s forehead. She pulled back and winked at him. “But _I_ was in love with Glorfindel and _you_ are in love with Ecthelion. Just ask him, brother. All he can do is refuse.”

She walked away, her dress trailing behind her, but paused at the doorway. She turned back to him.

“I doubt he will,” she said.

“Say yes,” Erestor said. “Yes, I know. Hence my hesitation.”

She shook her head, dark curls sliding across her shoulders. “I do not think he will refuse you. In fact, I think he will enthusiastically accept.”

Erestor sighed. “Not everyone is as eager as Glorfindel was for you.”

“Not everyone, no,” Ithilwen agreed. “But Ecthelion very well might be.”

“Sometimes hope is a weapon,” Erestor whispered. 

“Not this time,” Ithilwen said. “Find a smile, Erestor, then come to dinner. Even if it’s just an act. You can still be lost in your thoughts, but if the others see you so worried, you won’t have a moment’s peace tonight.”

Rog, in particular, had a bad habit for questioning Erestor repeatedly until he got either a confession or a laugh out of him. Erestor considered it an endurance test. Rog considered it entertainment. 

“I will,” he promised.

**************

It was a large crowd for a family dinner, though half of those added guests came from Rog’s brood. Rog, Noriel, and their children were out in the garden with Ecthelion, chasing after birds that Duilin kept calling down from the trees.

It was a warm night, the kind best spent under the stars with a good drink and good company. They would all move outdoors eventually, but for now they were starting to gather at the massive table that took up the Heavenly Arch’s private dining suite. 

Egalmoth was already in conference with Aredhel, both reviewing some new sketches Noriel had brought. Those two were always after designing the next pretty thing, or Egalmoth was at the very least. Penlod and Aredhel were usually they one they had to pull him back from his more flamboyant designs, throwing out enough jewels on a whole set of shields for example, using enough sparkling rocks to blind the sun itself.

Glorfindel waited patiently at one of the side tables for Ithilwen and Erestor to appear. He had a watchful eye on Branwen, Penlod’s ward, as she flirted with Legolas of the Tree in the corner. Galdor was also present somewhere in the house with Penlod, looking through the Heavenly Arch’s inventory of bows. 

“Leave them to their romance.”

Glorfindel turned to his side where his wife stood, one of the few elves able to sneak up on him. She was resplendent in a deep red dress, her hair decorated in golden chains that looped around and connected to a large golden flower on the crown of her head. She was magnificent.

“You continue to steal my breath along with my heart,” Glorfindel said, not a single lie in his words.

Ithilwen laughed softly and pulled him away from his seat. “Come, let us take our places at the table. Penlod and Galdor are almost done with their inspection.”

“I’d much rather sit in this dark corner and have you all to myself for a bit longer,” he confessed.

It was trying at times, their arrangement, especially during those silent nights when he woke up to a cold bed beside him. But he admired and respected Ithilwen’s devotion to her family and his House and the amount of dedication it took to juggle such a life. 

“There will come a time, after all this is settled and sorted, they you will miss the days when I was so absent.”

“Never,” he said.

Ithilwen ran a hand down his chest, resting it over his heart. “I like the silver, a bold choice for you.”

“Rerindion's suggestion.”

“You should raise his wages. He always gives such good advice on all sorts of matters.”

“I tried and he told me his pay was already too high,” he said.

Ithilwen had that look on her face that meant she wanted to get her hands on the account books. He’d lose her to the numbers soon enough if he didn’t distract her.

“Where is the guest of honor?” he asked.

Ithilwen eyes shifted towards the ceiling. “Upstairs letting himself fill with doubts.” She looked so sad as she pulled Glorfindel towards the main table. “It is not an easy thing, risking a heart.”

Glorfindel pressed a kiss to the top of her head in agreement. He knew they were some of the lucky ones. They had been betrothed since childhood, yes, but they’d also been raised with the knowledge they could break such an agreement if they ever so wished. And even with the certainty of their feelings for each other, Glorfindel still remembered how his hands shook the first time he told her he loved her, remembered the tears in her eyes and initially mistaking her joy and relief for some sort of rejection.

No, it was no easy thing to risk a heart. 

“I do think the reward will be worth it,” Glorfindel said.

“If they both survive the journey there,” Ithilwen agreed.

Glorfindel sat beside her and reached for the closest wine decanter. He took a sniff and smelled a mixed berry juice, made in-house for both Ithilwen and Erestor who did not care for wine. He poured them both a glass as the room started to fill with guests and everyone took their seats. 

Egalmoth took the head chair, Erestor as the guest of honor would take the end. Penlod took a seat beside Ithilwen, fingers still covered in ink and a ledger full of parchment placed down in the space between them. Aredhel sat to Egalmoth’s left, Galdor beside her. Legolas and Branwen were still in their own bubble, Rog, Noriel, and their brood still held Ecthelion hostage outside, and Erestor still had yet to appear. The Valar only knew where Duilin had gone.

“Food will get cold,” Glorfindel said, watching the kitchen staff lingering in the corners.

“We can at least start with the appetizers,” Egalmoth said, signaling for the plates to be brought in.

“Did I hear appetizers?” Duilin asked, jumping down onto the open balcony from somewhere above.

“Did you just climb the house?” Penlod asked.

“Climbed down from the roof. It’s good exercise,” Duilin said. He slid into his chair. “Food?”

Glorfindel leaned over to Ithilwen. “When we have children, we’re keeping that one far away from them.”

“Agreed,” Ithilwen said. 

****

**************

Appetizers were already being served by the time Erestor reached the dining suite. He noticed that half their guests were still absent though, so he only felt a little guilty for any delay on his part. Their kitchen staff worked far too hard on nights like these for their magnificent work to go to waste.

“Erestor, you have a serious air about you tonight,” Penlod said as Erestor took his seat at the end of the table. “Have you finally committed to your decision?”

“Yes,” Erestor said, not bothering to ask what decision he meant. There was only one possible question any elf cared to ask Erestor these days, though Penlod truly cared about the answer more for Erestor’s sake than this own.

“Ecthelion, then,” Penlod said. He opened his ledger and made a note of something “Little surprise there. Much like Ithilwen when she asked Glorfindel.”

“Asked?” Glorfindel laughed. “Demanded. Your sister demanded I saw to her Rites.”

“And who had his hand up her skirt not even an hour later?” Egalmoth asked.

“Well, I figured it was best to answer her demands as soon as possible,” Glorfindel said. “And I will have you know she was already quite educated before that night.”

“Yes,” Egalmoth said as he glared at his law-brother. “I wonder who was responsible for that.”

“They were already betrothed,” Aredhel said. “Consider yourself lucky there weren’t already elflings about.”

“She kissed me first,” Glorfindel defended himself to Egalmoth.

Penlod set his ledger to the side and reached out to grasp Ithilwen’s hands. “You never had a public ceremony. You could still break your marriage contract and tell everyone it never happened. You don’t have to be chained to that fool for all eternity. I’m certain we can find you a nice proper elf. Or she-elf, if you so seek that path.”

“Your offer is so kind,” Ithilwen said with true sincerity. “Alas, I do love him.”

Penlod patted her hands again. “Well, we all have our faults.” He picked his book up again. “And even if Ithilwen kissed him first, he was the one who officially proposed to her the very hour she reached her majority.”

“Woke the entire House up,” Egalmoth agreed.

“And that first kiss happened when we were children,” Ithilwen said. She tugged on one of Glorfindel’s braids. “I should have just let you fall out of that tree.”

“You are and remain my hero,” Glorfindel said.

Erestor had to smile at them. He’d been lucky in his life, to be around so much love. Even after their parents had left, determined to seek a life in Hithlum and under Fingolfin’s rule once more, Erestor had been raised in nothing but love. Ithilwen had returned to the House of the Heavenly Arch, swearing an oath to raise Erestor as her own, with Egalmoth at her side. She could have resented him, for it was Erestor’s wish not to leave the city that caused their parents to grant such a thing, but Ithilwen never had or would utter a word against her decision to return. Glorfindel had equal cause to complain, and yet simply divided his time between their home and his own, advising Erestor once that when Ithilwen asked for some space, it was best to give it to her and that communication and comprise were most important for a happy marriage. 

“Do you think Rog and Noriel plan to release Ecthelion from their clutches soon?” Aredhel asked, with an eye to the garden windows.

Elfling laughter filled the evening air from below, the large brood of Rog and Noriel chasing after Ecthelion, delighting in the fresh air far from the forges. 

“Let them have their fun,” Egalmoth said. “It’s good for all of them.”

“They’ll be horribly embarrassed when they realize they’ve come to the table after the guest of honor,” Penlod advised.

“Can I be a guest in my own home?” Erestor asked.

“An honored attendee then,” Glorfindel said. He turned to Penlod, “It’s a family dinner, no need to be so formal.”

“Besides Rog has felt shame maybe twice in his long existence and this will certainly not do it,” Egalmoth said. 

Galdor laughed and stood. “I’ll go get Branwen and Legolas if someone else is willing to brave the mock battle in the gardens.”

“I’ll go,” Erestor said. 

“It’s your dinner,” Aredhel protested.

He bowed his head in respect to the White Lady. “Yes, my lady, but I was _also_ late to the table and am the only one without plate. It’s fitting and I do not mind.”

“Well, if you insist,” Aredhel said.

“I do,” Erestor said as he pushed his chair out. 

Galdor walked towards the hall and Erestor towards the balcony where a hidden staircase linked directly to the gardens. In the stairwell he found Branwen and Legolas.

“Oh my darling niece,” he called.

“Only legally,” Branwen said. She turned and sighed. “Who’s coming? Penlod or Galdor?”

“Galdor,” Erestor said. “He went towards the house, so you can try and make it to one of the public rooms, sitting a suitable distance apart, when he finds you.”

Branwen rushed forward and gave him a hug. “You remain my favorite adoptive relative.” She kissed his cheek. “Happy Begetting Day, Erestor.”

She and Legolas disappeared through the passageway behind the portrait of Varda before Erestor could even thank her. He shook his head at her antics, and the attempt to court on her own terms, and kept to the stairs and the garden below.

“It looks like we’ve been called out,” Rog said once he spied Erestor. “And they’ve sent the Guest of Honor after us.” He turned to his wife. “I think Penlod is trying to shame me.”

Noriel snorted. “As if that’s possible.”

“I volunteered to come,” Erestor said, standing beside them. “I was late to the table as well.”

“Well, that’s alright then,” Rog said, clapping Erestor on the shoulder with one of his massive hands. “We’ll head on in.” He whistled. “Boys, let Ecthelion go.”

Ecthelion’s musical laugh came from the bottom of an elfling dogpile. After the four boys climbed off of him and ran towards their parents, Ecthelion was left on the grass, hair and clothing askew, laughing up at the night sky.

“Quite a sight you make, Lord of the Fountains,” Erestor said. He knelt down and helped pull Ecthelion up. “Very in touch with nature, I see.”

“I have grass stains on my backside, don’t I,” Ecthelion said.

Erestor _only_ looked because Ecthelion had so asked. “Your leggings are dark enough to hide them.”

“Liar,” Ecthelion teased. 

His eyes shone in the moonlight, and that was enough alone to take Erestor’s breath away, but it was more how relaxed Ecthelion appeared now, as if some of his burdens had finally fallen off his shoulders.

Erestor reached out and tugged Ecthelion’s tunic back in place, unable to help himself.

“This is a lovely color on you,” he said.

“Thank you, Erestor,” Ecthelion said. “Glorfindel insisted.”

“Even he’s right once a decade,” Erestor said. 

He stood back as Ecthelion undid his long braid and shook his hair out. “So much for elaborate hairstyles,” he said, pulling it back into a single tail and securing it with a leather band. “I should’ve known better with those demons around.”

“You are their favorite uncle,” Erestor agreed. 

“Or just far easier to tackle than their mountain of a father,” Ecthelion said. 

Or the fact that the children knew, despite how terrifying and awe-inspiring Ecthelion could be when he put on the mantle of warrior, he was one of the kindest elves in all of Gondolin, with a soft spot for elflings. 

“Perhaps,” Erestor agreed. 

They walked in a comfortable silence up the stairs to the dining room, hands occasionally brushing as they walked side by side. 

****

**************

Glorfindel had coaxed Ithilwen outside for a post-dessert walk around the city. The ever-burning lamps even seemed dim in the pure dark of the deep night. The city was still alive in its own ways, music and voices raised to the stars, some in reverence, some in their cups, and some in far more personal and pleasurable things. Some elves always forgot about their open windows and balconies.

Not that many secrets could truly be kept in their enclosed mountain home.

“Do you think we should have escorted Aredhel home?” Ithilwen asked. “Galdor always gets wary around the King’s Tower.”

“He just doesn’t like how enclosed it is,” Glorfindel said. “That elf lives in a glorified tree house.”

Ithilwen’s lips twitched and then she put a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to hide a smile.

“What is it?” Glorfindel asked.

“If Galdor lives in a glorified tree house, then Duilin’s in a birdhouse.”

Glorfindel wanted to groan at such a pathetic joke, and yet all he could do was lean down and kiss that smile, taste the amused joy coming from those beloved lips.

“Stay with me tonight,” Glorfindel pleaded as they slowly separated. “I wish to see you in my bed, in my dreams, and in the morning light.”

“You’ve always had me, Glorfindel,” Ithilwen said. “No need to try to charm my skirts off.”

“I quite enjoy charming your skirts off,” he said. “Though I will settle for your warmth beside me instead of sending me off to an empty bed.”

“Silly Laurefindil, where do you think I’ve been leading us this entire time?” she asked.

It was foolish of him not to recognize his own garden gate.

Ithilwen led them through the gate, the garden, the halls, and up into their bed. 

****

*************

The house had grown quiet with the departure of Noriel and her family. Rog had slipped him a set a papers before they left, the design for Erestor and Ecthelion’s insignia, if it so came to that.

It put a fear into Erestor, to think that so many thought it all such a sure thing. He didn’t know if it was just because they were all so eager to see Ecthelion married off or to see Erestor make a fool of himself or if it was because they honestly didn’t have anything better to gossip about. All their certainty just made Erestor’s heart fill with doubt. 

“You like the clasp, then?”

Erestor stumbled, just managing to catch himself and Rog’s designs from hitting the floor. He turned around to find Ecthelion behind him, a hand over his mouth obviously covering a smile.

“Apologies,” Ecthelion said. “I thought you heard my approach.”

“Keen though my ears may be, you never make a sound in soft shoes,” Erestor said.

Ecthelion glanced down at his feet. “Ah, well, it didn’t seem like a night for boots.” He gestured to Erestor’s hair. “The clasp?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s gorgeous,” Erestor said, fingers trailing to the back of his head. “And far too much.”

“Nonsense,” Ecthelion said. “It’s for a celebration of your life. It deserves such gifts.”

Erestor hoped the blush he could feel rising to his skin wasn’t too obvious. Hopefully the dim light and shadows of the night would be his friend until he could compose himself.

“Well, it is a piece of art I will cherish,” Erestor said. “And the flute, though I’ve never seen its make before.”

“Oh,” Ecthelion said with a slight bow of his head. “It was one of my own making. When were on our mission, my hands grew idle. I was carving it without conscious thought. I know it is not perhaps the most glorious of flutes, certainly doesn’t carry the sound of the metal ones, but it is a sincere gift.” He glanced up. “Not that you aren’t deserving of the metal flutes, it’s only that I could not think of a better recipient.”

“Ecthelion, you’re rambling,” Erestor said with a laugh. He placed his free hand on Ecthelion’s shoulder. “Besides, I have plenty of metal flutes, most gifted from you if I do recall, and this one is special. You spoil me.”

“On that, we disagree,” Ecthelion said.

Egalmoth interrupted them then, Penlod next to him, arm around his waist.

“Time to retire?” Erestor asked.

Egalmoth nodded. “Not that we would kick our beloved Ecthelion out of our home. We can provide you a room, of course. It seems your escort has already abandoned you.”

Ecthelion laughed. “Yes, well, when you best friend marries, one must get used to the disappointment of him abandoning you for his wife. The nerve of such a an elf.”

“How dare he,” Penlod jokingly agreed. 

“Honestly,” Ecthelion said as they all shared a laugh. “Thank you for the offer of a room, Egalmoth, but I can see myself home.”

He left them after a round of increasingly ridiculous farewells and taunts directed at Glorfindel in his absence.

“So, did you ask him?” Penlod asked as the great doors of the house closed behind Ecthelion. 

“Eru’s balls,” Erestor cursed at the empty doors.

“You could always run after him,” Egalmoth suggested. “It would be quite romantic.”

He could, but he didn’t want it left for the dark of the night, as if it was something he was ashamed of asking, only willing to do so under the cover of shadows with no one around.

“It’s not the right time,” Erestor said. “It’s a new day tomorrow.”

“If you insist,” Egalmoth said, with just a bit of worry in his tone.

“I do,” Erestor said, even as he stared at those doors.


	3. Chapter 3

Glorfindel woke in the morning to warm sunlight on his face,feeling lazy in a way that only came with a long night of peaceful sleep. He rolled over, expecting to find Ithilwen’s soft body to lay his head upon and instead was met with a hard chest full of muscle.

Glorfindel lifted his head to find Ecthelion smirking at him.

“Good morning, darling,” Ecthelion teased. “Slept well, did we?”

Some mornings, such as this one, Glorfindel wished he had chosen Duilin as his best friend and shield mate. 

“What have you done with my wife?” he asked as he dropped back down to his pillow.

“She found me wandering the gardens this morning while on the way to get your breakfast tray.”

Glorfindel lifted his head up again to look around. Their room was currently absent of both Ithilwen and a breakfast tray. A double insult.

“And?” he asked.

“Well, she came across Rerindion and said something about account books and wages, then showed herself into his office, food tray in hand. I was able to snag the toast off the tray before she disappeared.”

Glorfindel laid back down and sighed. “I won’t see her again until dinner.”

Ecthelion patted the top of his head. “There, there, Laurenfindil. I’m sure she’ll be back before the mid-day meal.”

Glorfindel swatted Ecthelion’s hand away and slid out of bed, headed towards the bathing chamber, and ignoring Ecthelion’s taunts of being blinded by the sunlight hitting his bare ass. 

“You truly are the palest elf among us,” Ecthelion said. “Despite all your time in the sun. Must be the Vanyar side.”

“The Valar did not bless us all with your golden skin,” Glorfindel said as he slipped on his morning robe. “Or such delicate cheekbones,” he teased as he sat on his bed. He poked Ecthelion’s side. “Where’s the bread?”

“What if I ate it all?” Ecthelion asked.

“Then you finally learned to become a delicate eater because I don’t see a single crumb on you,” Glorfindel said. He reached behind Ecthelion and pulled out the small plate in triumph. “No jam?”

“She was already halfway in the office,” Ecthelion defended his less than stellar pilfering skills. 

Dry toast was still better than no toast, so they both munched on in companionable silence.

“So, did Erestor ask you?” 

Ecthelion’s shoulders dropped, enough of an answer.

“There’s still time,” Glorfindel said. “Plenty of time.”

“I think he wanted to,” Ecthelion said, playing with a bit of crust on the plate. “We didn’t have much time alone.”

“We all tried to leave early to give it you,” Glorfindel said. “There was a plan and everything.”

“I know,” Ecthelion said. “But then Rog had his ear to discuss something, and I got distracted by a conversation with Aredhel, and when it was finally just us, it was far too late for such things. Egalmoth was closing the house up just when we’d started to talk.”

“You ever wonder if he does it on purpose?” Glorfindel asked. “Erestor is as much--if not more--his child than his brother. Perhaps he’s not so eager to see him married off. The house will be empty then, with both Erestor and Ithilwen gone.”

“Perhaps if that was the case,” Ecthelion said. “But this is not marriage. It’s just a dinner.”

“Says the elf who already has betrothal rings at the ready.”

“There is no harm in being prepared, Glorfindel. We can’t all propose with a ring made of a daisy stem.”

That was insult that would not stand! It was one of his most beloved memories. “Did it not work?”

“Only because I took pity on you,” Ithilwen said as she pushed through the bedroom door, trying to balance two trays in her arms with an accounts book tucked under her chin. She set both trays at the foot of the bed, catching the log book before it could fall into the food. “Since Rerindion wouldn’t take the pay raise, I passed it on to his niece.”

“She’s a child,” Glorfindel said.

“And now with a much increased allowance,” Ithilwen said. She crawled into bed beside Ecthelion with a shooing motion, shoving him into the middle. “It’s the only way he would take it.”

“So you stole the entire account book in revenge?” Glorfindel asked. 

“Oh, no, this is for the accounts on the Golden Flower’s contribution to Erestor’s ceremony and our reimbursement. Penlod handled the arrangements and I want to make sure we got a fair deal.”

Glorfindel shook his head not even bothering to ask which _we_ she meant, even if it was all the same in the end really. 

“Don’t get too ahead in the accounts, my love. Erestor still has yet to ask,” he warned.  
Ithilwen looked up in disbelief, finally pulled from her numbers. She looked down at Ecthelion who had buried his head under one of their pillows in despair. 

“But we perfectly orchestrated it for them to have some time alone,” she protested. She poked Ecthelion. “What did you do?”

“Blame Rog,” Ecthelion’s muffled voice explained. 

“And Aredhel. And Egalmoth, apparently,” Glorfindel said. “We should all know better than to try to get Erestor to perform to any timetable but his own. He never did respond well to manipulation.”

“Manipulation?” Ithilwen asked with a sour look on her face. “It’s no such thing. It’s merely giving him the chance for an opportunity to ask in places and situations where he feels most comfortable.”

“Is that not manipulation of a sort?” Ecthelion asked, having removed the pillow from his face.

Ithilwen shoved a strawberry in his mouth and then placed the pillow gently back over his head. “We’ll hear none of that nonsense now. We’ll just have to find another opportunity.”

“Find or create?” Glorfindel asked. 

“It’s Gondolin in the midst of the Court’s prime season. Something will present itself,” she said with the type of certainty Glorfindel wished he could feel. 

She reached across Ecthelion and caressed Glorfindel’s cheek. “Keep faith in young love,” she advised. “It’s worked out quite well in my family.”

“But what if Ecthelion is the one to break that streak?” he asked.

“I’m right here,” Ecthelion said.

Ithilwen shoved another strawberry into his mouth. “Erestor won’t let it. He may tarry until the last minute, but if he has a plan, he will not be deterred.”

And Erestor was a demon to deal with if someone got in his way. 

Glorfindel pulled the pillow off of Ecthelion’s face. “I suppose even you can’t cock this one up.”

Glorfindel, perhaps, deserved the pillow to his face after that statement.

****

**********

Gondolin was a city of control. Every aspect of its life had been appointed and approved by King Turgon. All of the noble houses only existed by the mercy of the King’s favor. Their lineage on the other side of the sea did not matter—here they served at the pleasure of the king. Noldor or Sindar or the very rare Avari or Telri they’d picked up along the way, they all answered to Turgon. And Turgon was desperate for safety and protection and to see life flourish. The ice of Helcaraxe had never left him. He was thankful that his sister and daughter survived, but all who had been with them at the time remembered the horrible loss of Elenwe.

It didn’t make Turgon a bad or cruel ruler, just overly cautious and determined to a fault to see his people safe. He’d removed them from all others so they could live. He’d let them leave if they truly desired it, but never to return unless by his invitation. And no one who had not been there when the gates closed around the first settlement, or who was not born within the city, would ever know the way, would ever be allowed inside, unless the Valar or the Eagles bid it. 

A trusted few were sent out as scouts once or twice a decade. More mundane news was delivered via messenger birds, trained by Duilin himself. All the gates had guards stationed at all time. Every able citizen received some sort of arms training, even if they were never expected to truly fight. 

As a novice scribe, Erestor had been sent off with Duilin, then serving his decade-long turn at the post of Chief Guardian of the Gates, to help update the rota. Each House was in control of a gate, and each gate had their own garrison, full of truly bored soldiers. Nothing much for them to do but read, train, drink, and wait. It was worse for those farthest from the city, closer to the cold air of the mountain, so bitter of wind that even the heartiest of elves would feel its bite. Still, they all served with pride and honor. Erestor had marveled then, and still marveled now, how they could breathe so easily in the dark, narrow paths of some of the garrisons. He hated it. Give him the open sky and fresh air always.

Now Erestor, on the brink of becoming a senior scribe, found himself with a stack of duty rosters before him, Ninquion, Lord of the House of the Tower of Snow, sat across from him with a desperate smile on his face.

“Your cousin is our head archivist,” Erestor said. “How did it get to this?”

Ninquion shrugged. “Penlod has his own soldiers to mind. I do not like to bother him with trivial things.” His eyes widened at his words. “Not to say that what you do, or Penlod does, is in any way trivial, but this seems…”

“Below Penlod,” Erestor agreed. “Not that he wouldn’t help if you asked.”

Ninquion nodded. “I know he would, but he is always so busy. And I know you and I are only family by the very barest of legal bonds, but Erestor, I am from a family of weavers. Renown though we may be, I have no experience with these things. I know how to run a mill. I am struggling to run a House, and I absolutely have no clue how to run soldiers.”

Erestor wanted to ask why Ninquion had even taken such a high position then, but he held his tongue, knowing it would be rude, and cruel, in the face of Ninquion’s current despair.

“Turgon insisted I become a lord,” he said. “I pleaded with him that my family are craft makers, and he said that our cloaks were the only thing that had kept most of the others alive on the Ice. He insisted that this position was a reward for loyalty and duty. Promised me I’d never have to work the loom again, but I enjoy the loom, Erestor. I miss my weaving. I know Penlod and I have done the family proud, but sometimes it feels like too much. All was well when Lossiel was still with me, but then she became one of Idril’s handmaidens and moved into the palace.”

“And what happened to your housekeeper?” Erestor asked. “Or your accountant?”

“Mision married a harpist in, well, the House of the Harp. Faniel welcomed a child not a month past, and I would not call her back to her post so soon.” Ninquion folded his hands together as if in prayer. “Please, Erestor, I beseech you to help.”

Erestor knew that if he helped this once, he would have to help forever more, but Ninquion had always been kind and it wasn’t his fault he had no talent or training for this sort of thing.

“Of course I will help you, Ninquion. You do still need to find a new housekeeper, and I daresay Faniel deserves an assistant. We can put up a post for the positions if you’d like.”

“Please,” Ninquion said in a tone just above begging.

“Ask Baralin on the way out and he will see it done,” Erestor said, pulling the mess of a stack towards himself.

“Thank you, Erestor,” Ninquion said as he stood. “If you need anything special for your ceremony, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. It’s the very least I could do.”

Erestor shook his head as Ninquion left, not bothering to linger on the fact that he still had yet to ask Ecthelion anything. He didn’t need to be reminded of how little time he had left. 

It’s not that he hadn’t _tried_ , but he certainly wasn’t going to ask Ecthelion when he was coming off the training fields, in front of an entire legion of his admirers. He wasn’t going to do it in the Lesser Market, where Ecthelion was working on redesigning the fountains there. And he certainly wasn’t going to do it in the middle of the public orchard, when he was covered in dirt and bark and helping Branwen carry two bushels of apples in order to bribe Penlod with baked goods. 

“I’m hopeless,” Erestor muttered.

Luckily his mood was broken by the bell for the mid-day meal. While it wouldn’t cure him of his current problem, it would at the very least be a needed distraction.

****

**************

“Erestor!”

Erestor came to a stuttering halt at the sound of his name from that voice, somehow both unexpected and anticipated. He took a moment to plaster a smile on his face and turned around with a false cheer he did not feel.

“Salgant,” he greeted. “What brings you to the scribe halls on such a glorious day?”

Salgant was the last noble heir to go through the ceremonies. Idril had accompanied him to the dance, and Aredhel at night, all by arrangement via his parents. Salgant had confessed to him once that he cared not for love, sex, or romance. That all he needed to be happy was his harp and his sweets, but that his parents had other plans for his future. They weren’t friends or enemies or anything other than two elves going through similar circumstances mere years apart.

“I’m here to see you,” Salgant said, taking his arm in too familiar a gesture for Erestor’s taste. “Mother said she heard from the palace decorator that your match still isn’t decided for the dinner. She ordered me to find you and offer my hand.” Here he gripped Erestor’s arm far too tight. “Please refuse me,” he whispered.

Erestor pulled his arm away. “I must refuse you offer,” he said. “Though I am flattered, I suppose, by the invitation. I know who I will ask.”

Salgant nodded in relief. “Oh, good. I so dreaded you were going to accept.”

“And that would be such a horrible thing?”

Erestor tried not to wince at the sound of Ecthelion’s voice. He could feel the warmth of his presence behind him, could see the widening of Salgant’s eyes at realizing who asked said question, and wondered just who had cursed him to stumble into such situations. 

“Not...not bad, Lord of the Fountains,” Salgant stammered. “I am just no fan of the dancing or the ceremonial robes. Erestor is, of course, the brightest jewel of the Heavenly Arch and any elf should be so honored to escort him on such a night. Or any night. Or day.”

“Salgant,” Erestor said.

“Yes?”

“Leave,” he said.

“Thank you,” Salgant said, with true gratitude, as he turned and scurried off. 

Erestor’s shoulders dropped and he tilted his head back to see Ecthelion’s face above him, barely holding in his laughter.

“How much of that did you see?” he asked.

Ecthelion arched one of his perfect eyebrows. “Do you really want to know?”

“No,” Erestor admitted. He turned around to face Ecthelion. “Though I do wonder what brings the illustrious Lord of the Fountains to the scribes hall.”

“You,” Ecthelion said. “Well, to be perfectly honest I was at the Council Hall seeking the needed permits for the Lesser Market expansion, but then I heard the meal bell and decided to come here. If you are willing to have such company for lunch, of course.”

“Only a tad presumptuous of yourself, then,” Erestor said. He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Ecthelion laughed softly as he took it. “You are never one to be led, Erestor,” he said, though his voice gave no judgment.

Erestor dared to look up at him then, his mouth working faster than his caution. “Only when _I_ choose to be.”

Ecthelion’s laughter was much louder then, drawing all sorts of eyes and ears to them.

Now wasn’t the time either, with so many watching them, on the way to a crowded dining hall, but Erestor could bask in the light of Ecthelion’s singular attention for just a little bit.

****

**************

“Why are you so dressed up?” Erestor asked. He’d just returned from his archery lesson with Duilin, to find the house all in a fuss over some surprise party. Since no one had bothered to find him earlier, he held on to hope that he would not have to attend the mysterious event. He just wanted a night with himself, a good book, and perhaps a chance to practice with his new flute.

From the look Ithilwen gave him, he had doubts about achieving those personal goals. She was in one of her courtier dresses, the most formal of costumes—a complicated make of layers and corsets and petticoats, gold and silver threads, and all the colors of the rainbow in jewels. Her hair was still lose though, and her face showed little pleasure.

“I must attend a formal dinner tonight,” she said.

Erestor bit into his apple and wondered at the sad look on her face. “Where? The King’s table?”

“Precisely,” Ithilwen said.

Then she would be regulated to nothing but a spouse, a voice silenced, a pretty little doll to sit at her husband’s side, left to talk about nothing but fashion and embroidery and any future children. Little wonder she looked like she’d just sucked on a whole barrel of lemons. At most court dinners she could be left alone to head her own small table, but an intimate one that was confined just to Turgon’s table? And in front of other members of the court not considered family? She would have to be the most prim and proper of noble sister and wife.

Ithilwen walked over to him, stole his apple, and bit off half of it in spite of his protests. 

“I must eat now. I can hardly stomach most of the King’s personal court. Leaves me with little appetite. And this dress is impossible without an attendant.”

“Is Egalmoth going as well?” he asked as he stole his apple back.

Ithilwen nodded. “Penlod as well.”

“So I should have a most quiet night,” Erestor said, relieved to have time to himself. 

Ithilwen’s smile was too bright as she just hummed at him. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“You will be going to the Golden Flower. Glorfindel has volunteered your services as a storyteller for his many young wards, since he can’t possibly be there to send them off into Irmo’s lands.”

Erestor sat down hard in disbelief. He didn’t _mind_ children, per se. As long as he could quickly hand them back off to their guardians. “You want me to mind a gaggle of children for an entire night?”

Ithilwen patted his shoulder as she maneuvered herself and her skirts to sit down beside him. “Do not worry so. I wouldn’t abandon you to the greedy clutches of those youths alone. Ecthelion will be there to help you. Since the dinner is only for mated couples, Ecthelion was excused and when he heard about Glorfindel’s plans for you, he so kindly volunteered his services.”

“How nice of him,” Erestor mumbled. 

He didn’t begrudge the time with Ecthelion, but Glorfindel had a house full of wards. Had adopted damn near every child who had lost parents between the Blessed Realm and Gondolin, had taken in any whose parents had left before the Gates were sealed, and then taken in the children of _those_ wards once they’d grown and gone off to find jobs as servants or merchants or many other types of work that left them without a formal noble House to claim as their own. Most of the wards did live in the small city dwellings with their parents, but Glorfindel always kept the doors to his home open, and the Golden Flower was renown for its comfortable accommodations and filling, but not fanciful, food.

“We can always send a messenger to Ecthelion to explain that his services are no longer required.” Ithilwen nodded at the fear Erestor knew showed on his face. “As I thought, then.” She tried to push herself up twice and fell back both times. “Perhaps I’ll just roll myself to the palace.” 

“And ruin the Tower’s good work on that dress?” Erestor looked down at the true work of art. “You’d never forgive yourself.” He stood and pulled her up, almost stumbling himself. “Let us see to your hair. If you are to be nothing but decoration tonight, let us make you the most beautiful at the table.” 

**************

“Why must we take the golden monstrosity to Turgon’s?” Penlod asked. “My house has a perfectly serviceable carriage that never gets used when we dine.”

Glorfindel exchanged a look with his wife and brother, trying to find the most diplomatic answer, even if his own carriage had just been deemed a monstrosity.

“It is a perfectly serviceable carriage,” Egalmoth agreed, taking his husband’s hand. “It is just a tad, shall we say, different.”

“Plain,” Ithilwen interjected. “Wonderful craftsmanship, but not a statement-maker, and that is what we are about.” 

Penlod turned to Glorfindel. “And what do you think of it, dear law-brother?”

“Penlod, your house is revered for many things. You are the greatest of scholars, but that carriage is an eyesore better suited to hauling dung than elves.” He flinched at Ithilwen’s elbow in his side. “He asked!”

“Tact, dear husband, is something I know you are capable of,” Ithilwen said. She turned to Penlod. “We cannot appear in the Heavenly Arch’s carriage, since most deem it grander than Turgon’s own. We also cannot appear in something unadorned, or others will wonder if we’d squandered our fortunes. So we use Glorfindel’s. And it can be mistaken for no other’s, at the very least.”

“And honestly with that dress, Ithilwen may have very will tipped your carriage over,” Eglamoth said.

“Just how many petticoats do you have under there?” Glorfindel asked. He was shoved far into the corner just to make room for her mountain of skirts.

“Too many for even _you_ to take up the challenge,” she warned. 

Glorfindel winked at her. The night was still young and he’d need something to amuse him during this bore of an evening. Dinners with Turgon and his family? Marvelous affairs full of good wine and greater friends. Formal dinners at the King’s table? Horrid. Food too fancy to be filling, wine watered down to match as many tastes as possible, and conversation kept to the sort of topics and opinions that would offend no one and cause little debate or discussion. The biggest news of the evening might be about floor tile. The only thing that could possibly entertain Glorfindel tonight was to figure out how to find a gap somewhere in the maze of ties and fastenings and jewels that held Ithilwen’s dress together.

“No,” she warned, voice pitched low. “Do not even try.”

“At least not until we are seated at the table,” Glorfindel promised.

A blush rose at the back of Ithilwen’s neck and Glorfindel despised all those layers of materials in that moment that kept him from leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to that stretch of perfect skin.

Egalmoth looked up to the stars. “It’s a clear night, at least. Perhaps Erestor and Ecthelion can exhaust all of those wards of yours by running around the gardens.”

Glorfindel turned his attention back to the other occupants of the carriage. He nodded at Egalmoth; that was Glorfindel’s plan at least. They should have time to talk this evening, for Erestor to _ask_ finally. 

“Meddlers,” Penlod said with a shake of his head. “The entire lot of you.”

Ithilwen scoffed. “Oh the lot of _us_? So you just happened to misplace those permits Ecthelion needed, requiring him to be near the scribes halls just in time for lunch?”

Penlod smiled peacefully. “You can prove nothing, sister.”

****

**************

The House of the Golden Flower was renowned for its love of all growing things. The best gardeners in all of Gondolin hailed from its halls, and the gates to the public garden were always open, allowing people to marvel at sunflowers almost as tall as trees, and marigolds in swathes, and all yellow and golden flowers as far as even elven eyes could see. There was also a public greenhouse where the elves of Gondolin could marvel over plants that couldn’t, and shouldn’t, grow in the mountain city.

Glorfindel’s personal garden and greenhouse didn’t have much in the way of golden or yellow flowers, outside of a patch of celendaile, but had been designed with his wife in mind. Ithilwen loved roses of all colors, tiger lilies, lavender, bluebells, hydrangeas, and Glorfindel indulged his wife with a garden full of them. Where the public garden was designed with rigid control of pathways and bushes, the personal one was wild and free. All green grass and flowers and some bee hives. Tall trees with bird houses hanging from their limbs and smaller patches of feeders on the ground for any passing animal.

Erestor had grown up playing in these gardens. He had fallen asleep countless times on patches of warm grass, the cold air coming down off the highest peaks, surrounded by the scent of the flowers he’d always associated with his sister. He had his first sword lesson here, Glorfindel stood on his knees, handing over a battered wooden sword and teaching him various grips and tricks. He had run here on the day his parents proposed their leaving, found his sister, and cried into her shoulder about not wanting to go, had walked with her back to the Heavenly Arch, basking in the determined set of her shoulders and the plan she had formed. And, of course, these were the gardens where he first remembered his thoughts about Ecthelion turning from hero-worship and admiration to something more. He’d found Ecthelion’s large form crouched over a scared rabbit, scolding one of Ithilwen’s cats for frightening it, and holding it to his chest and giving a younger Erestor more insight to just how many layers of Ecthelion were still unknown to him. It was then that Erestor decided he wanted to know each and every one of them.

Now he found Ecthelion in the gardens, leaning against one of the stone planters, legs stretched out and looking up at the stars, flute loose in his fingers and a vision in the moonlight. His feet were bare, toes planted firmly in the grass, and he looked almost tired. Little surprise since Erestor had _just_ coaxed the last of the wards to sleep.

“Tired?” Erestor asked, sitting down next to him.

Ecthelion’s smile was small. “I do not envy Noriel and Rog. Or any with many children. I never thought it would take so long for them to sleep. How does Glorfindel do it most nights?”

“I suspect he both has a lot of help and none disobey him or Ithilwen or Rerindion when they declare it is time for bed. We, the unsuspecting stand-ins, were easy to trick.” 

Erestor also suspected that someone had fed them more of the honey candy than they should have been allowed in one evening, but he couldn’t prove such a thing unless Glorfindel himself admitted to it.

“Perhaps,” Ecthelion agreed. He had a bottle of one of Glorfindel’s better wines at his side, payment for services rendered, and passed it to Erestor. 

Erestor took a tentative sip, never one to enjoy the taste of the dark red wines Glorfinel favored, and passed it back, trying not to make a face.

“Forgive me,” Ecthelion said. “I forgot you do not often partake.”

Erestor was not offended and there was no need for an apology. “You didn’t force the bottle in my hand, Ecthelion. I sometimes grow curious over why others are so drawn to it, but I still have yet to find a wine I favor.”

“Or can even stand the taste of,” Ecthelion said. He stood and walked over to one of the drinking fountains, filling one of the wooden cups and bringing it back to Erestor. “Fresh mountain water?”

“Thank you,” Erestor said, slowly sipping the cool, crisp drink.

They lapsed into silence for a time, both captivated by the stars above. Erestor let himself have this, a moment to watch Ecthelion bathed in moonlight, eyes fixed to the sky.

“I never dreamed of children when I was younger,” Ecthelion said, breaking the peace. “ I never wanted to raise any of my own. I don’t mind them, of course. I often find joy in their joy, how every little thing in the world can inspire wonder in them. A family? Marriage? An heir? That seemed so far beyond my life.”

“And then things changed,” Erestor said.

“To say the very least,” Ecthelion agreed. “Turgon has been pressing me to appoint an heir ever since I took up this lordship. Apparently telling him the city can take it all and open my house to the public is not a sufficient response.”

Not with the amount of funds tied up with Ecthelion’s house. Erestor had glanced over their public records once or twice in the records room and nearly gasped at the sums there.

“You can always adopt an heir,” Erestor offered. “Take one of Noriel’s younger children. Perhaps one that Rog hasn’t yet drawn completely to the forge. And you are hardly the only House without a direct descendant blood heir. Only the Harp, the Hammer, and King Turgon himself can claim such. Galdor’s appointed a cousin, Ninquion the same. Egalmoth has Ithilwen until she decides it is time to have children. Penlod has no heir appointed, nor does Duilin, nor do you or Glorfindel.”

“Ah, but Penlod is married, as is Glorfindel. Duilin and I are brought under extra scrutiny and while Duilin can get away with it, half this city thinking he’s mad or willing to marry a bird, I get handed speeches about my proper duty as a lord, crafted by King Turgon himself.”

It was rare to see Ecthelion show such open frustration with King Turgon, both as his ruler and as his friend, and Erestor would be a liar if he said he wasn’t fascinated, and honored, to hear such honest words. 

“I understand he seeks the happiness of others, but some things can’t be rushed,” Ecthelion said. “Some things are worth waiting for.”

“Yes,” Erestor agreed. 

“But what of you, clever Erestor? Do you want children of your own?” Ecthelion asked.

“No,” Erestor burst out. “Valar, no. I suppose, depending on which elf I wed, I will have to change that opinion. I never put much thought into it, if I am perfectly honest. I’m the third child, unlikely to inherit my House with Egalmoth and Penlod with their future heirs and Ithilwen and Glorfindel with theirs. I’ll never have a child of my own making, that has never been where my desires lay, but I suppose there will be an appointed heir. If that’s a requirement of my marriage.”

“Perhaps you _should_ take Salgant up on his offer. His mother will never relinquish control of that House. She’d tell Namo himself to turn right back around and leave her be.”

Erestor laughed at the very idea. “Oh, yes, Salgant to his harps, me to my archives, and never a word spoken between us.” He shook his head at the sad image that painted. “I will only marry for love.”

“As you should,” Ecthelion agreed. “Promise me you won’t ever be persuaded otherwise.”

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Erestor asked.

Ecthelion did not laugh. He reached out and gripped Erestor’s hand. “You have always known your own mind and kept your own council, something to be admired. But as you enter court life, you will have so many eyes on you, so many approaching you with both sincere admiration and false flattery. I would not see your heart broken by another elf’s ambitions.”

“I know my own heart,” Erestor said.

Ecthelion’s grip tightened on his wrist. They were so close now, Erestor could feel the heat of Ecthelion’s skin, smell the mint he had chewed early. All he had to do was lean forward, to reach out, and then there would be no space between them.

“Do you?” Ecthelion asked, words almost poured into Erestor’s mouth.

“If you do not kiss me now I will never forgive you,” Erestor said.

Ecthelion’s laugh was different now, one Erestor had never heard, low and soft and full of promise.

“If propriety permitted,” Ecthelion said. 

Erestor didn’t want another talk of rites or ceremonies or traditions. All he wanted was Ecthelion and so he reached and took, just for now, just this once.

Erestor had been kissed before, by Branwen when they were both in that confusing time of early adulthood. He’d shared more than a handful of kisses with some fellow scribes, some just for practice, some for comfort, most for curiosity. 

This. _This_ was different. Ecthelion did not hesitate once he was given permission. He cupped Erestor’s chin, pulled him closer, kissed him deeper, than Erestor could ever dream. He parted with a series of small, soft kisses, to Erestor’s nose, his cheeks, his forehead, before breaking whatever spell only the Lord of the Fountains could hold over him.

“For both our sakes, it is best for me to leave now,” Ecthelion said, voice rough. He pressed one more soft kiss to Erestor’s lips, stealing what little breath Erestor had managed to gain. “Sweetest of dreams, clever Erestor.”

It was only after Ecthelion had disappeared through one of the hidden garden paths, after Erestor had composed himself and taken the half-empty wine bottle inside, only after Glorfindel and Ithilwen had returned from their dinner, that he recalled that he still had not asked Ecthelion to be his escort.

“Erestor, honestly,” Ithilwen said as she cradled his head in her lap.

“Even after he kissed you,” Glorfindel said. He shook his head. “What a roguish move. I’m almost proud of him.”

“Tomorrow,” Erestor vowed to himself. “I will do so tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t often Glorfindel was granted an entire day free of his duties, at least those to the Kingdom. There would always be something to manage around his home, but King Turgon usually had him on a rota which saw training Gondolin’s soldiers, especially the young ones who needed the most care and encouragement, consulting on various military concerns, sitting on the King’s Council, and then doing whatever vague duties were handed down to him as a Lord of Gondolin. When they’d first settled into the city, Glorfindel had been overwhelmed by everything. He’d desperately missed his parents, his old tutors, and any other guiding influence in his life up to that point. So much responsibility had been placed on his shoulders so suddenly, and while he was doing his best to swim upstream against the current, he could feel himself starting to sink.

But then there was Ithilwen and Ecthelion, throwing out ropes and tugging him back to the shore like always.

Now Glorfindel still felt the importance of his duties, but he wasn’t struggling under the weight. And while he did revel in a day excused from everything, he found himself in need of some amusement, even before the break of dawn. Ithilwen had already left him to see to her own duties, so Glorfindel went in search of other company, slipping out of his home and down the connected path to the House of the Fountain.

It was a rare occurrence for Ecthelion to still be stuck in dreams after the break of dawn, but on this particular morning Glorfindel was able to walk unnoticed into Ecthelion’s bed chamber. He only took a small amount of joy in throwing open his balcony doors and letting light flood the room.

“You are the absolute curse of my immortal existence,” Ecthelion yelled from his bed.

Glorfindel placed a breakfast tray by Ecthelion’s bedside and then patted his head before pulling the bedclothes straight off.

“You need to get up, there are things to do! Elves to see! My brother-in-law to continue seducing.”

“It was one kiss,” Ecthelion said, trying to bury his head under his pillow. His bare neck and shoulders gave away his blush.

“I’ve seen the effect your kisses have had on your past suitors,” Glorfindel said. “Couldn’t help yourself, you rogue. I’m almost proud.”

Ecthelion threw his pillow at Glorfindel. “Firstly, he kissed me.”

“And completely ruined you for all others, yes?” he teased.

“Secondly,” Ecthelion said, face fully red now, “I refuse to discuss this with you. It’s private.”

Glorfindel snorted. “If you honestly think there are any secrets between us, let me remind you that I’m the only other person besides the Avari who did it, who knows just where and what your tattoo is.”

It truly was a tasteful one, an Avari star symbol formed of interconnecting looping knots, that Ecthelion got as a means to ground and connect him to this land, their new home. He’d had it done on the inside of his left thigh, easy to hide unless someone went looking for it, and Glorfindel only knew because he’d been there to witness its creation. 

There were a handful of secrets they shared, just the two of them. Things of both joy and sadness, a result of often being sent out together as scouts. They’d discovered so much of this strange land at each other’s side, and Glorfindel could never imagine a world without Ecthelion in it. 

It was a unique bond of friendship and brotherhood. And Glorfindel knew his luck that Ithilwen had never questioned or begrudged his connection with Ecthelion, and Ecthelion had never done the same in terms of Glorfindel’s connection with Ithilwen. They were his balance. And perhaps that was why Glorfindel was so eager for Ecthelion to find a love like Glorfindel had with his wife. If any elf deserved to feel that balanced and content, it was Ecthelion. Of course there were plenty of elves who were perfectly content on their own; who never needed or wanted a spouse. Ecthelion, though, wasn’t one of them and had often expressed his wish to find his mate one day. 

None of them expected it would be from Egalmoth’s family, and perhaps it wouldn’t be in the end, but for now there was still that spark of hope that came with new love. 

“Stop that,” Ecthelion said as he reached over for a handful of grapes.

“Whatever do you mean?” Glorfindel asked. “All I’m doing is standing here, enjoying the view.”

“You have that wistful look on your face where you’re already planning my wedding,” Ecthelion said. “Which is rich coming from the elf who had such a small ceremony.” Ecthelion looked down. “Glorfindel, he hasn’t even asked me to escort him yet. Don’t get too far ahead.”

“He will ask,” Glorfindel said. “We know he will.” He sat beside Ecthelion and gave him an encouraging hug. “And yes, perhaps I am looking too far into a future that has yet to form. But I can hope for you. For the both of you.”

“Ever the romantic,” Ecthelion said. “Ever the dreamer.”

“Ever the fool.”

They both flinched and turned around to find Ithilwen leaning against the large windows to the balcony. 

“It’s a good thing I wish neither of you harm, since I’ve been standing here long enough to kill you both,” she said.

When she had left this morning, Ithilwen had been dressed in a loose, golden gown, one of her favorite outfits to wear while walking the halls of the Golden Flower. Ithilwen looked a world different now, though no less beautiful in Glorfindel’s eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid, save a few stray curls that had come loose from the wind. The only jewels she wore were the ruby and opal studs always in her ears and her gold wedding band on her finger. She was dressed in one of Glorfindel’s old tunics, the fabric nearly down to her knees, and what he presumed was an old pair of Egalmoth’s riding hose. The soft grey boots were her own, favored by the Sindar, and a gift from Galdor long ago. 

It was rare, the occasions when she was free of her obligations which required ornate dresses, complicated hairstyles, kohl perfectly traced over her eyes, rouge on her cheeks, and jewels piled on in a tasteful but telling manner. It was the rule of law, that each able bodied citizen knew some form of defense, and Ithilwen had been chosen long ago to study under Duilin as one of his scouts, a position only for those of exceedingly nimble feet who could easily run undetected through the shadows of the city. 

Glorfindel could admit he hadn’t been overly pleased with Ithilwen’s assignment. He would’ve much rather have her learn under his own tutelage, but she had little patience for the sword or axe, even less for the bow, and was better striking unseen from the dark with small, short knives and precise kicks, all which Duilin knew best. 

Duilin gave a small bow from his perch on the balcony. “Lady Ithilwen, I shall call this a successful lesson. Now, I must bid you farewell and see to my archery students.” He waved and then was off again to the rooftop and the trees, a flight of swallows following him. 

Ecthelion laughed at Glorfindel and punched him in the arm. “Still jealous?”

He wasn’t. He was not one bit.

“I just don’t see why _I_ can’t also teach Ithilwen some of our better defensive maneuvers. It’s as if I’m found wanting as an instructor.”

“You are a _wonderful_ teacher,” Ithilwen said as she moved over to the breakfast tray, snatching a piece of cheese and some bread. “Patient and willing to work with even the most untalented of students.” Her eyes lingered over him. “But, my love, I do find you distracting.”

Glorfindel grinned at her and sat up, pulling her close. “Oh? How distracting?”

“No,” Ecthelion said, throwing a balled up tunic at them. “Not in my bedroom. Not in my bedroom with me in it.”

Ithilwen smirked at him and moved out of Glorfindel’s arms, finishing her snack. “You should be so lucky.” She stretched out next to Ecthelion, kicking off her boots to save any dust from his bed. “Half the city already thinks we’ve bewitched you for our own nefarious purposes, even if they don’t speak so openly about it. Salgant’s mother is especially vocal about the _unholy_ things we must get up to.”

“Aredhel likes to encourage them,” Ecthelion said with a sad nod. “Perhaps that’s why Erestor hesitates.”

“My brother hesitates because you drive him to distraction,” Ithilwen said. “But I can offer you some advice to ensure he _will_ ask you before the sun sets on this day.”

Ecthelion sat up, at attention, his messy braid from the night before the only thing daring to be out of place. “I’m listening,” he said.

“There are ways to seduction that have nothing to do with words,” Ithilwen said as she tugged his hair loose from his bindings. “Erestor is no magpie, he will not be drawn in by something shiny and polished, even if he admires you all dressed up and beautiful.” 

She hopped off the bed and walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out his oldest pair of leggings and a tunic he only kept for cleaning out the stables. 

“Show him a future he’ll come home to each night. Show him where you’ll be after he’s come from a long day of documenting disputes and correspondence. Show him you, at your most comfortable, purest self. He already loves you. Make him fall in love with you, and this home, and the dream of your future together.”

“But just start with the escort,” Glorfindel reminded him. “No proposing.”

Ithilwen’s eyes lit up. “He has rings, doesn’t he?” she asked. Her eyes darted around the room, before settling on the trunk at the end of Ecthelion’s bed.

“No,” Ecthelion said, launching himself off the bed and tackling Ithilwen to the ground in a heap of laughter. 

If only all the gossips of the city could see them now. 

****

**************

Erestor had every intention of marching--well not marching, a brisk, respectable walk-- to the House of the Fountain first thing in the morning. He had his plan before he went to bed the night before, he accounted for possible mishaps during his morning ablutions, and he was finally prepared to ask Ecthelion the question he’d been meaning to ask, when his brother stopped him before he could reach the back gate of their private gardens.

He’d decided on the back gate to avoid any interruptions. He hadn’t accounted for Egalmoth taking his morning meal there.

“Erestor? Why in such a hurry, brother? You haven’t even eaten!” He pushed out the chair beside him. “Sit. Eat.”

“I was just going to grab something from the stalls,” Erestor said as he tried to back through the gate.

“Nonsense,” Egalmoth called. “It is still far too early for you to head to work. Penlod’s already abandoned me for some mad project he came up with last night and Ithilwen is at her training lessons with Duilin.”

Egalmoth never liked to dine alone. Erestor spared one last glance to the private path that led into the city and let his shoulders drop. He couldn’t deny Egalmoth such a simple request, and he wouldn’t even if he wanted to give into his more selfish desires. 

“How went your child minding last night?” Egalmoth asked. “You were still gone by the time I returned.”

“It went well,” Erestor said, making a small breakfast plate. “Though even Ecthelion was worn out by those beasts Glorfindel calls his wards.” He poured himself a cup of tea. Orange. Penlod’s favorite. “I lingered behind to speak with Glorfindel and Ithilwen.”

“And do you have happy news to report?” Egalmoth asked. His eyes were soft and his smile bright, excitement just contained.

“No,” Erestor said, dropping his head. “I forgot to ask again.”

“Erestor!”

“I know,” Erestor said.

Egalmoth’s hand was a comforting weight on his wrist. “So forgetful. It’s unlike you, though I understand being driven to distraction by an elf you admire.” He patted Erestor’s wrist again and sat back, a contemplative look in his eyes.

“Yes?” Erestor asked, with only a bit of fear.

“Have you tried writing him?” Egalmoth asked. “You have talent with the written word. Perhaps it will be easier then.”

“It’s not what’s done,” Erestor said. “There is to be a verbal agreement.”

Egalmoth snorted. “Hang what’s supposed to be done. This is all but certain, minus the actual asking, and there’s more than just an _escort_ between you two. I _know_ those looks you’ve shared. I’ve given those looks. I've received them. And such a simple letter can be something to cherish.”

Erestor knew they could, but it just didn’t feel right for this.

“Even if you don’t write to each other now, perhaps in the future. You two will often be pulled in different directions, pulled apart by your own duties, and there may be days where you barely speak to each other. Write. Leave little scraps and entire scrolls. Send them via messengers and hide them where only he can find them.”

“You speak from experience,” Erestor said. He’d never heard his brother voice go so very soft as he spoke just then.

Egalmoth simply smiled at him, his fingers tapping against his chest. “May I tell you a story?” he asked. “Do you have the time for it.”

“Of course,” Erestor said. He didn’t really, but he would make time for _this_.

“When we were still building this city, hewing its bare bones out of the rock, Penlod and I would be separated for months at a time. Someone needed to guard our home in Vinyamar and someone needed to be here. Penlod always was the better with plans and I was always the better with guarding, so we sent letters. Small notes, long missives, things that were easier to say to parchment than to the other’s face.” Egalmoth’s eyes went even softer. “I’d admired him for centuries, desired him since I first felt those stirrings, and loved him since we were both apprentices. But those letters? I fell in love with him again and again each time.” Egalmoth reached into his heavy brocade overshirt and pulled out a worn letter, one that had been folded and unfolded countless times. “This letter? It was the first time he wrote down those words. _I love you_. I’ve carried them with me ever since.”

Erestor’s fingers almost trembled as he took the worn letter. He wished he had gloves on to save further damage to such a precious piece of paper, but Egalmoth clearly had no such concern. Inside the ink was faded to a light brown, smudges and creases all over, and nearly worn through, as if fingers had rubbed over those words again and again, there was Penlod’s famous hand.

_I love you. I love you with all that is in me. And when we see each other again, may it be the first thing we say upon greeting. I love you, Egalmoth. You have my heart and you have me._

Erestor had never see either of his eldest brothers so demonstrative in their affections. They didn’t have the same freedom of reputation as Glorfindel, he was largely indulged by any and all who met him. Egalmoth and Penlod were two of their eldest Lords, true Eldas from over the sea, and had to maintain their stoic facades unless in private. And while he knew they were well-matched and deeply cared for each other, it never dawned on him just how deeply those feelings were rooted. 

“As I said earlier, dear brother, a letter can be a treasure when it carries a message of hope. Or love. Or the opportunity for both,” Egalmoth said. “And you have always excelled in the written word.” His smirk was smug as he sipped his tea.

Egalmoth’s words stuck with Erestor. They stayed with him as he finished his breakfast and realized he had dallied too long and needed to head to the scribe's hall. They lingered as he walked through the city. They bounced around his head as he walked up the steps and the only reason they left him was the person who greeted him at the top. 

Branwen’s face was pale when Erestor found her at the entrance to the scribe’s building. 

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Inventory,” Branwen said, the horror clear in each letter of the word. “He’s decided to do inventory.”

Erestor looked at the door of the scribe’s hall in sorrow. He would not be able to see Ecthelion for lunch. He’d be lucky if he’d be able to see him before dinner. But he would see him today. He would.

Erestor gripped Branwen’s shoulder. “We have to go in.”

“Do we?” she pleaded.

“More time out here will mean more time in there,” he said.

Branwen shook her head. “Inventory,” she muttered. “Where does Penlod get these ideas.”

“Apparently it came to him in a dream,” Erestor said. “There is something I must do first.”

“Run? Flee? Fake an illness an escape to the Healer’s?” Branwen asked.

Erestor walked to one of the novice’s small writing desks and pulled out a scrap of parchment and some ink.

“A cry for help?” Branwen asked.

“A letter,” Erestor said. “Can you get one of the messengers? A younger one, who cares more about duty than gossip?”

Branwen looked down at him in curiosity then glanced to the letter, smiling at who it was addressed to.

“It would be my honor,” Branwen said. She ignored his squawk and boundaries as she pulled him into a quick hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

 

****

**************

Glorfindel stretched out in the sunlight, lulled to sleep by the sounds of the junior soldiers going through their drills below. Ecthelion sat beside him, drawing pad cradled in his lap and charcoal in his hand, the black dust already staining his fingers and shirt. They were both delighting in the warm weather, banished from their own homes by their housekeepers who accused them of getting underfoot and ordered them to relax. It was an order neither one of them dared disobey.

Glorfindel wiggled his toes in the warm grass under his feet and marveled for a moment over each event in his life that brought him here, a world away from the fields he’d grown up on. He turned to study Ecthelion who was deep in his own mind, drawing something from memory rather than a subject before him. Glorfindel had glanced at the drawing and knew well the face that was being formed with care under Ecthelion’s careful fingers.

“I never did ask you,” Glorfindel said, breaking their companionable silence. 

“Ask me what?” Ecthelion said, still distracted by his drawing. 

“Why Erestor?” 

Ecthelion paused and looked up at Glorfindel. “Defending his honor? It was a kiss, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Erestor needs no one to defend his honor, nor would you ever allow it to be questioned. I just never thought to ask when your feelings changed.”

Ecthelion set his drawing and charcoal to the side. “It’s a fair question,” he admitted. “Though why ask now?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “Curiosity? General wonder?”

“Ithilwen asked?”

“Egalmoth, actually.”

Ecthelion sighed and joined Glorfindel laying on the grass. He looked up to the sky, eyes following the clouds as he gathered his thoughts.

“He’s always been so clever. So quick in wit and thought. Even as an elfling he could best most of us in debate.”

“Agreed,” Glorfindel said.

“And I’ve always loved him as Egalmoth’s brother.”

“Of course.”

“But I suppose my feelings started to change when he was a novice scribe, just after what _we_ would’ve considered his real majority. He must have been seventy or so? When they have that assignment where they must interview an elder of the city?”

Glorfindel nodded. He hated that assignment when it came every few years, his office was nearly flooded with novice scribes eager to question him for their essays.

“We were sharing lunch soon after the assignment came out and I remember complaining about how it was always the same questions about glory this or battle that. About the rebellion and crossing the Ice and all sorts of matters I’d rather not recount over and over again.”

Glorfindel felt much the same.

“And so I asked Erestor who he had chosen. I assumed it must be Penlod, but he said Idril.” Ecthelion’s smile turned brilliant. “And then the next day he came to my home, found me at my favorite fountain.”

The first one in the entire city. Small, often used by passing cats or dogs as a watering hole, but dug and built by Ecthelion’s own hands. 

“And he asked me to speak of the first song I ever learned. The first flute I ever played. The first time I heard Ulmo’s voice in the water.” Ecthelion turned his head and met Glorfindel’s eyes. “He asked about _me_ and the things I cherished and which brought me joy. And that’s when it changed. Because he did not care about my influence or my title or great deeds of elves older than himself. He wanted to know of flutes and songs and me.”

It was a rare thing, especially in a place such as Gondolin, to have someone who cared not one little bit about a title. Not that Erestor would ever care, he was born into one, almost destined to marry into one, and given a luxury of not having to care about Ecthelion’s. It was more important that he wanted to know _Ecthelion_ and not the Lord of the Fountain. And really? What elf wouldn’t find joy in such an important distinction.

“My lords?”

A scrawny little scribe stood over them, hair falling into her eyes as if she had run here as fast as she could.

“Do we know you?” Glorfindel asked.

“Not, by name, I’m sure, but I know of you, of course.” She gave a small bow as Ecthelion and Glorifndel stood. “Limmiel is my name. I have a message from Lord Erestor.”

“Lord,” Glorfindel said with a laugh

“It is his title,” Ecthelion said. He looked closer at Limmiel. “Aren’t you Lothien’s sister?”

“Yes, Lord Ecthelion. She headed for the armory and I went with the scribes.”

“She’s just down there are on the field if you want to greet her,” Glorfindel said.

Limmiel shook her head. “I’ve already been gone longer than I ought.” She ducked her head. “Your lordships weren’t so easy to find.”

“Perils of a day off,” Glorfindel said. He looked over Ecthelion’s shoulder to read the note.

Ecthelion stepped away. “It’s not for you.”

Even so, Glorfindel knew the elegant hand that wrote those sweeping words. He stood back and smiled at the light in Ecthelion’s eyes.

“An invitation?” Glorfindel asked.

Ecthelion shook his head. “A request to meet after his work day is done.” He tore out his drawing from his pad, carefully wrote a note in the charcoal at the bottom, shook off the excess dust and handed it to Limmiel. “My reply.”

Limmiel nodded as she took it, dashing off as quickly as she’d appeared. 

Glorfindel waited until she’d crested the hill before hooking his arm around Ecthelion’s shoulder. “Let’s get you home. We have to prepare.”

“There are hours yet,” Ecthelion protested.

There were, and Ecthelion would fret during most of them if left to his own devices. Glorfindel loved him too much to allow such worry and pacing in public.

“If we stay out here, someone will rope us in to helping somewhere. Then you’ll have to cancel your plans,” Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion quickly leaned down and grabbed his supplies. “Home it is then,” he said.

 

****

******************

The courtyard of the House of the Fountain was the most pleasing in all of Gondolin, at least in Erestor’s opinion. All the fountains were so soothing and it always smelled of fresh water and sweet flowers. He’d spent hours here as a child, toddling along after his brother and sister. He’d spent countless days under its roof, following the sound of Ecthelion’s flute through its corridors, as a way to test his tracking methods. He’d shared more meals here than any other house in the city, save his home and Glorfindel’s.

He’d never felt nervous or anxious inside these walls until today. Now his mouth went dry and his hands started to tremble. His feet were stuck at the end of the private path that connected the Golden Flower and the Fountain. No matter what he told his body, he couldn’t get his feet to move.

Ithilwen and Glorfindel stood behind him, a steady presence of support, a wall to keep the rest of the world away, a source of comfort for Erestor who felt like that little elfling leaving home for the first time to attend the junior scribe academy. 

“It’s just an invitation,” Erestor said.

“Indeed,” Ithilwen said, grasping his shoulder. “A simple ask.”

“With an almost guaranteed answer,” Glorfindel said.

Erestor turned around to meet his kind eyes, a promise and a secret knowledge there. Glorfindel never toyed around with the serious things. 

Erestor shook his head. “Why am I so nervous? It’s just a ball.”

It wasn’t just a ball or a dinner or a dance. It was always and would always be more than that. He knew it. Ithilwen and Glorfindel knew it. Egalmoth and Penlod knew it. Half the city knew it. But did Ecthelion know? From the drawing he sent with his reply, Erestor felt like he knew. Like he felt it too. 

It would’ve been easier to just ask someone like Duilin; a noble elf Erestor only had a friendly affection for. But that would’ve been settling, and the elves of the Heavenly Arch settled for nothing but the very best. 

“Right,” Erestor said. He straightened his back, shook his hands out, and took the first step forward. Then the second. Then the third. He took each step until he was at the portico of the private garden. And then he was inside the house. And then he was on the stairs. And finally he was at the door to Ecthelion’s personal suite. 

The door was open, an invitation of its own since Erestor was expected. The main sitting room was empty, though a mess of controlled chaos. Papers and books stacked high on an ornate desk in the corner. A whole row of knives and a whetting stone laid out on a table in front of the hearth. An entire corner devoted to music--stands and sheets and flutes and harps. All parts of Ecthelion scattered across an empty room. 

The door to the bedroom was also ajar and Erestor approached it slowly, giving himself one less chance to gather all his words and thoughts together. When he knocked his hands only trembled slightly.

“Enter,” Ecthelion boomed in his Lord of the Fountain voice. His tone and face immediately relaxed and softened when he saw Erestor. “Erestor! You’re early.”

“Ithilwen rescued me from Penlod’s inventory,” he said. He looked down at the floor then back up to meet Ecthelion’s gaze. “I must ask something of you,” he said. His wet his lips as his throat went dry. He kept his hands firmly clasped together behind his back and tried to ignore the shaking he could feel in his fingers.

Ecthelion’s hair was down and loose, curling as it dried in the light through the window. He wore leggings so threadbare they might as well have been see-through and his tunic was thrown over a chair by his bathing chamber. He leaned against the cushions of the window seat, the muscles in his arms and abdomen flexing as he pushed himself up from a casual sprawl. He was, in no way, helping Erestor in his task. This was proof positive the Valar, in fact, quite hated Erestor. Or at least found much joy in his suffering.

“Erestor?” Ecthelion asked, concern wrinkling his brow.

Even then he still looked blessed by the Valar and still far too attractive. 

“I have—I would like,” Erestor sighed. “I’ve been called the most articulate of young scribes and now I can’t speak.”

“You’re doing quite well now,” Ecthelion said. He looked near laughter as he gestured, “Please, continue.”

“I would like to ask you to accompany me to my majority ceremony.” There it was said and done and out there.

“For the dinner?” Ecthelion asked.

“For everything,” Erestor said. He glanced upwards and almost stumbled at the soft look on Ecthelion’s face. 

“There,” Ecthelion said as he walked towards Erestor. “Was that really so difficult?”

Erestor could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heartbeat. “Yes,” he said.

Ecthelion’s fingers burned as they reached behind Erestor and loosened the grip of his hands. He brought them back by Erestor’s side and ran his hand up and down his arms. He stopped once he returned to Erestor’s hands and made a sound of distress. 

Erestor looked down, nor surprised to see small crescents of blood in his wrists from where he’d gripped too hard. Everything stopped in the next moment, his breathing, his hearing, his heartbeat, as Ecthelion brought one of Erestor’s writs to his mouth and pressed a series of soft kisses to the wounded skin.

“Is that,” Erestor croaked out, “is that a yes?”

“Enthusiastically so,” Ecthelion said before bringing Erestor’s other wrist up to his mouth. “I’m so glad you finally asked. I would have looked awfully silly dressed in the colors of your House if you had said nothing.”

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Lord of the Fountain,” Erestor said, finally finding his solid ground again.

Ecthelion’s laugh was a deep, soft thing that sent fire down Erestor’s spine.

“A hope, dear Erestor,” he said. “Just a very fervent hope.” He still hadn’t let go of Erestor’s hands. “Would you like to stay for dinner? I’m sure we’ll be bombarded by your sister and law-brother. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt they’re already gathered in my sitting room, listening at the door.”

“We’re being supportive!” Glorfindel yelled from the other room.

Erestor burst into laughter, a weight finally falling over his shoulders, everything lighter and easier to breathe. Ecthelion look enchanted by it, eyes sparkling as he took in Erestor’s face.

“Of course, I could always kick them out as well,” he said.

Erestor shook his head. “They’d only find other means. Best to give into them now.”

Ecthelion sighed. “If we must.” 

Warm lips settled over Erestor’s own, a soft kiss, a kiss of greeting, a kiss of promise, a kiss that left him wanting more when they parted.

“I should get dressed,” Ecthelion said, stepping back, though still holding on to Erestor’s hands.

“If you insist,” Erestor said, letting himself look, letting Ecthelion see what he’d tried to hide in the past. The flush forming on Ecthelion's skin was a delightful thing to see. 

“Out before your sister marches in here,” Ecthelion said, finally dropping Erestor’s hands. 

Erestor reluctantly left, daring to look at Ecthelion one last time before closing the door behind him.

Ithilwen and Glorfindel immediately swept him into a hug, Glorfindel nearly lifting them both off the floor.

“I’m so pleased,” Ithilwen said, her voice wavering in the way it did when she was near tears. “I’m so happy for you both.”

“It’s just a dinner,” Erestor said, even if they all knew it wasn’t.

“It’s the start of something,” Glorfindel said, suddenly serious, his eyes seeing something the others couldn’t. “Something magnificent.”

“Glorfindel?” Ithilwen asked, concerned, a face cupping his cheek.

Glorfindel shook his head, his normal cheer back on his face, and hugged them both again. “Let’s see to that dinner.”

He’d already started to lead Ithilwen out of the room when Ecthelion came to Erestor’s side. This time he was dressed like an elf of his station, heavy silver brocade on his tunic and dark hose tucked into gleaming leather boots. His hair was still loose though, and carried the scent of something warm that Erestor couldn’t place.

“Shall we?” Ecthelion asked, holding out his arm.

Erestor took it without hesitation, letting him lead. For now at least.


End file.
